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THE  PRAISE  OF  LINCOLN 


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THE 
PRAISE  OF  LINCOLN 

JN  ANTHOLOGY 


COLLECTED  AND  ARRANGED  BY 

A.  DALLAS  WILLIAMS 


INDIANAPOLIS 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  191  i,  1925. 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


Printed  in  the  "United  States  of  America 


PRINTED    AND    BOUND 

■Y    BRAUNWORTH    &    CO.,    INC. 

•  ROOKIYN,   NEW  YORK 


Acknowledgment 

The  editor  of  this  Anthology  desires  to  express  his  sin- 
cere thanks  to  many  publishers  and  authors  for  their 
courtesy  in  granting  permission  to  use  selections  from 
their  various  volumes.  His  thanks  are  due  the  following 
publishers :  The  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  Boston,  for 
the  use  of  poems  by  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  Edmund 
Clarence  Stedman,  Bayard  Taylor,  Richard  Watson  Gil- 
der, James  Russell  Lowell,  Alice  Cary,  Phcebe  Cary, 
Christopher  Pearce  Cranch,  Lucy  Larcom,  Oliver  Wen- 
dell Holmes,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  John  Townsend 
Trowbridge,  Edna  Dean  Proctor,  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Rose 
Terry  Cooke,  Edward  Rowland  Sill,  Jones  Very,  Wendell 
Phillips  Garrison,  Maurice  Thompson,  John  Vance  Che- 
ney, Nora  Perry,  Henry  Howard  Brownell ;  The  Mac- 
millan  company,  New  York,  the  poem  by  Percy  Mac- 
kaye;  D.  Appleton  and  Company,  New  York,  for  the 
use  of  poems  by  William  Cullen  Bryant;  The  Saalfield 
Publishing  Company,  Akron,  Ohio,  poem  by  Phcebe  A. 
Hanaford ;  Silver  Burdett  and  Company,  New  York,  poem 
by  Samuel  Francis  Smith ;  Longmans,  Green  and  Com- 
pany, New  York,  poems  by  John  James  Piatt ;  The  J.  B. 
Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia,  poem  by  George 
Henry  Boker;  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York,  poems 
from  Abraham  Lincoln,  by  Lyman  Whitney  Allen,  and 
from  Survivals,  by  Lewis  V.  Randolph ;  The  Funk  and 
Wagnalls  Company,  New  York,  poem  by  Richard  Realf ; 
David  McKay,  Philadelphia,  poems  by  Walt  Whitman; 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  poems  by  Richard 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Henry  Stoddard;  The  New  England  Publishing  Com- 
pany, Boston,  poem  by  Hezekiah  Butterworth ;  The  Loth- 
rop,  Lee  and  Shepard  Company,  Boston,  poem  by  Robert 
Henry  Newell;  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  and  Company,  New 
York,  poem  by  Frank  B.  Sanborn ;  Little,  Brown  and 
Company,  Boston,  poem  by  Edith  Colby  Banfield ;  Harper 
and  Brothers,  New  York,  poem  by  Herman  Melville, 
from  his  Battle  Pieces  and  Aspects  of  the  War,  and  poems 
from  The  Poetical  Works  of  Charles  Graham  Halpine. 

Acknowledgments  are  due  the  following  periodicals 
and  magazines  for  permission  to  include  poems  that  ap- 
peared originally  in  their  pages:  The  American  Maga- 
zine, The  Independent,  Youth's  Companion,  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  Success  Magazine,  Hampton's  Magazine  and 
The  Century. 

Thanks  are  also  due  the  American  Press  Association, 
for  permission  to  use  An  Appreciation  of  Lincoln,  by 
Robertus  Love. 

The  authors  named  below  have  graciously  added  their 
consent  to  that  of  their  publishers :  John  E.  Barrett,  Vir- 
ginia Frazer  Boyle,  Edna  Dean  Proctor,  Robertus  Love, 
Julia  Ward  Howe,  Phcebe  A.  Hanaford,  Joel  Benton, 
Eugene  J.  Hall,  Lyman  Whitney  Allen,  Robert  Mackay, 
Horace  Spencer  Fiske,  James  Nicoll  Johnston,  William 
Henry  Venable,  Percy  Mackaye,  John  Townsend  Trow- 
bridge, Florence  Evelyn  Pratt,  Margaret  E.  Sangster, 
Edwin  Markham,  James  Oppenheim,  Frank  B.  Sanborn, 
John  Vance  Cheney,  Samuel  E.  Kiser,  William  Wilber- 
force  Newton,  the  Reverend  Doctor  P.  C.  Croll,  Wilbur 
D.  Nesbit,  the  Reverend  Levi  Lewis  Hager,  Lewis  V.  F. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Randolph,  Doctor  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  Benjamin  S.  Parker, 
General  John  James  Piatt,  Nathan  Haskell  Dole,  and 
Laura  Redden  Searing;  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  P.  McK. 
Garrison  have  given  permission  to  include  the  poem  by 
their  father,  Wendell  Phillips  Garrison. 

By  special  arrangement  with  Edward  William  Thom- 
son we  include  in  the  volume  his  poems  entitled:  We 
Talked  of  Lincoln,  When  Lincoln  Died,  and  Father  Abra- 
ham Lincoln,  from  his  volume  When  Lincoln  Died  and 
other  Poems,  published  by  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Com- 
pany, Boston. 

A.  D.  W. 


INTRODUCTION 

The  poetic  faculty  is  the  one  divine  gift  which  has 
no  limitations  in  time  or  space.  It  sings  in  every  note 
of  love,  from  passion  to  sacrifice.  It  tunes  its  lyre  to 
the  primrose  pitch;  and  its  music  is  heard  in  the  di- 
apason of  the  spheres.  It  records  with  equal  fervor 
the  glories  of  war  and  the  beauties  of  peace,  the  white 
man's  burden  and  the  black  man's  care,  the  thrill  of 
liberty  and  the  sullen  silence  of  the  slave,  the  peace  of 
home  and  the  pleasures  of  the  harem,  the  pomp  of 
power  and  the  pride  of  place.  It  weaves  Jacob's  coat 
of  poverty  and  Solomon's  royal  robe.  It  paints  with 
equal  touch  the  passion  of  a  Madonna  and  a  Salome. 
It  carries  to  Paradise  the  warrior's  cry,  the  lover's  sigh 
and  the  penitential  tear.  With  love  and  patriotism  it 
forms  the  human  trinity.  It  ascends  to  heaven,  and, 
Lucifer-like,  drops  swiftly  to  hell  again.  It  has  flat- 
tered Nero  on  his  throne  and  consoled  Milton  in  his 
blindness.  It  has  cajoled,  caressed,  rebuked,  uplifted, 
dismayed  mankind.  It  dispenses  the  honey  of  Hymet- 
tus  and  the  poison  of  asps.  It  has  recorded  the  agony 
of  Mary  and  the  anguish  of  Cleopatra.  It  is  good  and 
evil,  bitterness  and  sweetness,  light  and  darkness,  help 
and  hindrance.  From  its  mouth  have  come  both  bless- 
ings and  cursings.  Happy  the  man  who  is  worthy  of 
its  glorifications. 

America  stands  for  something  or  for  nothing.  I  am 
one  of  those  who  believe  it  stands  for  something.  It 
is  the  one  land  where  the  mystery  of  manhood  may 
be  fully  revealed ;  where,  at  the  last,  not  race  nor  creed 
nor  station,  but  character  shall  win  and  purposes  shall 


INTRODUCTION 

be  the  weights  put  in  the  balances  of  judgment.  It  is 
the  land  of  hope  and  not  despair.  If  I  were  asked 
to  tell  why  thus  I  think,  I  should  say  that  what  has 
been  may  be.  If  I  were  called  upon  to  name  one  man 
who  proved  my  statement  I  should  answer,  Abraham 
Lincoln.  And  with  the  name  all  doubt  would  vanish 
and  the  babel  of  discordant  views  become  dumb.  Be- 
fore you  would  arise  his  tall,  majestic  figure,  sharply 
silhouetted  against  a  nineteenth  century  sky,  and  you 
would  see  passing  before  you  the  years  wherein  he 
walked  from  the  Nation's  poverty  to  the  Nation's  Pan- 
theon. He  proved  our  country's  right  to  be,  and  our 
power  to  be  right.  Who  walks  in  his  steps  in  public  or 
in  private  life  will  always  be  enrolled  in  the  Army  of 
Constitutional  Liberty.  His  is  the  one  life  in  our  his- 
tory we  can  not  too  often  review  nor  too  sedulously 
emulate.  We  may  forget  all  others,  but  while  we  re- 
member him  in  the  true  sense  of  remembrance  we  shall 
be  safe.  Too  much  can  not  be  said  or  sung  of  him. 
He  can  not  too  often  be  recalled  to  the  memory  of  this 
people.  The  marble  and  the  bronze  are  enriched  by  his 
homely  face.  The  pigment  takes  on  a  richer  color  as  it 
traces  his  counterfeit  presentment.  And  when  the  poet 
sweeps  his  strings  in  music  to  the  greatness  and  the 
goodness  of  this  typical  American,  his  chords  approach 
the  divine — for  it  was  given  Lincoln  to  die  for  a 
people. 

Anthologies  are  not  new.  But  to  gather  the  roses 
which  have  bloomed  from  the  life  of  our  greatest 
man  and  from  his  memory,  and  to  let  the  American 
people  behold  their  beauty  and  enjoy  their  perfume  is  a 
distinct  feature  in  American  literature.    May  this  vol- 


INTRODUCTION 

ume  be  read ;  and  as  we  read  it  may  we  vow  that  this 
government  "of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  peo- 
ple, shall  not  perish  from  the  earth." 


<3L,.(R.% 


April  nth,  191 1. 


Lincoln's  Literary  Taste 

A  remarkable  group  of  human  beings  had  drifted 
from  many  points  to  the  top  of  Salem  Hill  in  Illinois, 
and  were  living  there  in  small  log  cabins  from  '30  to 
'38.  It  was  an  eminence  commanding  an  extensive 
view  of  broad,  green  prairies,  cut  by  the  winding 
Sangamon  which  touched  the  foot  of  the  hill.  In  one 
of  the  cabins  lived  Doctor  John  Allen,  a  graduate  of 
Dartmouth  and  a  man  of  character  and  cultivation, 
who  had  gone  west  seeking  a  climate  favorable  to 
weak  lungs.  Another  little  log  cabin  was  the  home  of 
one  Jack  Kelso,  of  whom  little  is  known  save  that  he 
was  fond  of  the  flowing  jug  and  spent  his  days  fish- 
ing in  the  river  or  shooting  on  the  near  prairies,  where 
game  was  abundant.  It  is  probable  that  he  zvas  the 
dissolute  son  of  a  family  in  the  East  able  to  give  him 
an  allowance  and  perhaps  glad  to  be  relieved  of  his 
proximity.  It  is  known  that  he  was  a  man  of  some 
taste  in  letters  and  familiar  with  the  poetry  of  Burns 
and  Shakespeare,  often  quoted  in  his  conversation. 
The  schoolmaster,  Mentor  Graham,  a  man  of  consid- 
erable learning  and  probably  a  college  graduate,  also 
lived  on  Salem  Hill.  These  three  men  represented  the 
culture  of  the  East. 

There  was  also  in  the  little  settlement  a  preacher 


LINCOLN'S  LITERARY  TASTE 

of  the  name  of  Cameron,  who  is  said  to  have  been  a 
man  of  parts.    Of  him,  however,  little  is  known. 

The  Rutledges  from  Kentucky,  who  kept  the  mill 
and  the  log  inn  were,  I  take  it,  simple  back-country 
folk  of  excellent  character.  James  Rutledge  would 
seem  to  have  been  a  "well-posted  man"  to  use  a  phrase 
of  the  time,  of  sound  opinions  on  religion  and  politics. 

Such  was  the  aristocracy  of  Salem  Hill  when  Lin- 
coln came  there  in  his  young  manhood.  The  other 
settlers  were  mostly  the  moving  riff-raff  of  a  pioneer 
time  from  here  and  there — quaint,  restless,  unrooted 
folk  seeking  an  easy  fortune  and  never  finding  it. 
The  young  giant  was  himself  a  restless  mover,  his 
spirit  seeking  its  way,  when  his  boat  stuck  on  the  dam 
at  New  Salem  on  the  Sangamon.  The  beauty  of  the 
high  hill  and  its  commanding  view  no  doubt  appealed 
to  him.  It  is  beyond  a  doubt,  also,  that  his  person- 
ality appealed  to  the  lonely  dwellers  on  the  hilltop.  I 
try  to  imagine  how  they  would  have  gathered  about 
him  at  Rutledge' s  tavern  that  evening  and  listened  to 
his  droll  talk.  I  am  sure  that  he  would  have  enjoyed 
telling  them  of  his  adventures  on  the  river  and  that 
they  would  have  enjoyed  the  story. 

I  can  hear  the  laughter  as  I  think  of  it.  How  Doc- 
tor Allen  and  Jack  Kelso  and  James  Rutledge  and 
Mentor  Graham  would  have  warmed  to  the  honest- 
hearted,  humorous  young  stranger  within  their  gates! 
They  would  have  given  him  a  hearing  the  like  of 


LINCOLN'S  LITERARY  TASTE 

which  he  had  never  known.  He  would  have  heard, 
and  probably  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the  captivat- 
ing rhythm  of  Burns — how  the  wisdom  it  carried 
would  have  delighted  him! — and  the  noble  music  of 
Shakespeare.  'Allen's  dignity  would  have  captured 
the  young  prophet  of  the  back  woods  who,  I  presume, 
had  never  enjoyed  intimate  talk  with  a  real  gentleman. 

Then  the  eyes  of  pretty  Ann  Rutledge  would  have 
been  among  those  which  were  looking  at  the  young 
giant  that  evening. 

He  liked  these  people  and  they  liked  him,  and  he 
decided  to  be  one  of  them.  Long  before  that  day  he 
had  acquired  an  indefinite  ambition  and  the  love  of 
honor  and  human  decency.  There  he  was  to  get  a 
love  for  literature  and  a  longing  to  serve.  He  began 
to  study  grammar  and  a  musty  old  volume  of  Black- 
stone  which  he  had  rooted  out  of  a  barrel.  The  abun- 
dant leisure  which  he  enjoyed  in  the  little  log  store  of 
Berry  &  Lincoln  was  favorable  to  his  purpose.  Every 
day  he  was  getting  poorer,  but  he  was  also  getting 
wiser. 

The  immediate  background  of  his  growing  literary 
genius  would  seem  to  be  three  great  passions.  Two  of 
them  came  to  him  on  Salem  Hill — a  deep  patriotism 
and  the  love  of  Ann  Rutledge.  The  other  passion  was 
inborn.  It  was  the  love  of  his  fellow  men,  coupled 
with  an  understanding  of  them  which  no  one  in  the 
range   of  my   knowledge   has   shown.     These   three 


LINCOLN'S  LITERARY  TASTE 

things  are  as  the  ink  of  his  pen  until  1863,  when  a  new 
element  imparts  to  his  work  an  immortal  rhythm — a 
deep  religious  feeling  born  of  the  great  trials  through 
which  he  had  passed. 

The  late  Horace  White  has  rightly  written:  "One 
got  the  overwhelming  conviction  that  Lincoln  was 
charged  with  an  irresistible  and  inspiring  sense  of 
duty  to  his  fellow  men." 

The  first  fruit  of  the  little  school  of  New  Salem 
life  was  a  crude  speech  delivered  in  1838,  full  of  patri- 
otic fervor  and  fairly  well  phrased,  but  lacking  in 
restraint.  Not  until  twenty  years  later  had  he  "found 
his  center"  as  Henry  M.  Alden  used  to  put  it,  and 
become  familiar  with  his  range  of  mastery  and  con- 
tent to  keep  within  it.  Then  he  delivered  the  famous 
lost  speech,  written  on  the  backs  of  envelopes  and 
scrdps  of  paper,  of  which  all  that  remains  is  its  tre- 
mendous effect  and  certain  phrases  like:  "A  house 
divided  against  itself  must  fall" 

One  of  the  most  curious  examples  of  his  literary 
art  was  that  which  caused  the  wrath  of  his  enemies  to 
praise  him. 

Judge  Douglas  had  publicly  denounced  Lincoln  and 
declared  his  intention  of  chastising  him. 

Lincoln's  answer,  full  of  good  nature,  was  as 
follows : 

"In  the  first  place  a  fight  would  prove  nothing  at 
issue  in  this  election.     It  might  prove  that  the  Judge 


LINCOLN'S  LITERARY  TASTE 

was  a  more  muscular  man  than  I  or  that  I  am  stronger 
than  he,  but  this  subject  is  not  referred  to  in  either  of 
the  platforms.  My  second  reason  for  declining  such 
an  encounter  with  Judge  Douglas  is  that  he  doesn't 
want  it  himself.  He  and  I  are  about  the  best  friends 
in  the  world  and  when  we  get  together  he  would  no 
more  think  of  fighting  me  than  he  would  think  of 
fighting  his  wife.  Therefore  when  he  spoke  of  fight- 
ing he  was  not  giving  vent  to  ill  feeling  but  only  try- 
ing to  excite — well,  let  us  say,  enthusiasm  against  me 
in  this  audience/' 

This  surely  is  a  pretty  bit  of  literary  art. 

Below  are  examples  of  his  forming  style.  The 
lucid  and  forceful  manner  that  Lincoln  had  attained 
by  1857  is  well  shown  in  the  following  terse  reply  to 
am  argument  then  widely  current: 

"Now  I  protest  against  the  counterfeit  logic  which 
concludes  that  because  I  do  not  want  a  black  woman 
for  a  slave  I  must  necessarily  want  her  for  a  wife. 
I  need  not  have  her  for  either.  I  can  just  leave  her 
alone.  In  some  respects  she  certainly  is  not  my  equal; 
but  in  her  natural  right  to  eat  the  bread  she  earns  with 
her  own  hands  without  asking  leave  of  any  one  else, 
she  is  my  equal,  and  the  equal  of  all  others." 

How  often  he  utters  words  that  seem  prophetic. 
As  early  as  1856  he  had  declared  in  his  best  argumen- 
tative style : 

"Do  you  say  that  such  restriction  of  slavery  would 


LINCOLN'S  LITERARY  TASTE 

be  unconstitutional,  and  that  some  of  the  States  would 
not  submit  to  its  enforcement t  .  .  .  The  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States  is  the  tribunal  to  decide 
such  a  question,  and  we  will  submit  to  its  decisions; 
and  if  you  do  also  there  will  be  an  end  of  the  matter. 
Will  you?  If  not,  who  are  the  disunionists — you  or 
we?  We,  the  majority,  would  not  strive  to  dissolve 
the  Union;  and  if  any  attempt  is  made,  it  must  be 
by  you,  who  so  loudly  stigmatize  us  as  disunionists. 
But  the  Union,  in  any  event,  will  not  be  dissolved." 

Undoubtedly  William  H.  Seward,  a  man  of  ex- 
quisite literary  taste,  had  been  a  help  to  Lincoln  in 
mounting  to  the  lonely  summit  of  style  which  he  at- 
tained in  the  speech  at  Gettysburg  and  the  second 
inaugural. 

IRVING  BACHELLER. 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 
O  CAPTAIN!    MY  CAPTAIN! 

Walt  Whitman 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weathered  every  wrack,  the  prize  we 

sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 

daring; 

But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 

O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 

Fallen  cold  and  dead ! 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle 

trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribboned  wreaths — for  you  the 

shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 

turning. 

Here  Captain!  dear  father! 

This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 

You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

I 


THE   PRAISE   OF  LINCOLN 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still ; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor 

will; 
The  ship  is  anchored  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object 

won. 

Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells ! 

But  I  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies 

Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


THE  DEATH  OF  LINCOLN 

William  Cullen  Bryant 

Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 
Gentle  and  merciful  and  just ! 

.Who,  in  the  fear  of  God  didst  bear 
The  sword  of  power,  a  nation's  trust. 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand, 
Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 

And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 
That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

Thy  task  is  done ;  the  bond  are  free ; 

We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave, 
iWhose  proudest  monument  shall  be 

The  broken  fetters  of  a  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noblest  host  of  those 
Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  right. 

2 


HYMN  TO  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

William  Wilberforce  Newton 


Saw  you  in  his  boyhood  days 

O'er  Kentucky's  prairies ; 
Bending  to  the  settler's  ways 
Yon  poor  youth  whom  now  we  praise, 

Romance  like  the  fairies  ? 
Hero !  Hero !  Sent  from  God ! 

Leader  of  his  people. 

ii 

Saw  you  in  the  days  of  youth 

By  the  candle's  flaring : 
Lincoln  searching  for  the  truth, 
Splitting  rails  to  gain,  forsooth, 

Knowledge  for  the  daring? 
Hero !  Hero !  Sent  from  God ! 

Leader  of  his  people. 

in 

Saw  you  in  his  manhood's  prime 

Like  a  star  resplendent : 
Him  we  praise  in  measured  rhyme 
Waiting  for  the  coming  time 

With  a  faith  transcendent  ? 
Hero !  Hero !  Sent  from  God ! 

Leader  of  his  people. 

IV 

Saw  you  in  the  hour  of  strife 

When  fierce  war  was  raging; 
Him  who  gave  the  slaves  a  life 

3 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Full  and  rich  with  freedom  rife, 
All  his  powers  engaging? 

Hero !  Hero !  Sent  from  God ! 
Leader  of  his  people. 


Saw  you  when  the  war  was  done 

(Such  is  Lincoln's  story) 
Him  whose  strength  the  strife  had  won 
Sinking  like  the  setting  sun 

Crowned  with  human  glory? 
Hero !    Hero !    Sent  from  God ! 

Leader  of  his  people. 

VI 

Saw  you  in  our  country's  roll 

Midst  her  saints  and  sages  : 
Lincoln's  name  upon  the  scroll — 
Standing  at  the  topmost  goal 

On  the  nation's  pages? 
Hero !    Hero !    Sent  from  God ! 

Leader  of  his  people. 

VII 

Hero !  Yes !  We  know  thy  fame ; 

It  will  live  for  ever! 
Thou  to  us  art  still  the  same ; 
Great  the  glory  of  thy  name, 

Great  thy  strong  endeavor! 
Hero !  Hero !  Sent  from  God ! 

Leader  of  his  people. 


FROM 
THE  "COMMEMORATION  ODE" 

James  Russell  Lowell 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 

And  loyalty  to  truth  be  sealed 

As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  bountiful  is  Fate; 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 

When  craven  churls  deride  her, 

To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 

This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 

And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 

Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 

Who  stands  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid  earth, 

Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 

Fed  from  within,  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 

Such  was  he,  our  martyr  chief, 

Whom  late  the  nation  he  had  led 

With  ashes  on  her  head, 

Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief; 

Forgive  me  if  from  present  things  I  turn 

To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 

And  hang  my  wreath  on  this  world-honored  urn. 

Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 

And  can  not  make  a  man 

Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 

Repeating  us  by  rote  ; 

For  him  her  old  world  molds  aside  she  threw, 

And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 

With  stuff  untainted,  shaped  a  hero  new, 

Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind,  indeed, 

Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead ; 

One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 

But  by  his  clean-grained  human  worth, 

And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 

They  know  that  outward  grace  is  dust; 

They  could  not  choose  but  trust 

In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering,  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 

That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 

His  was  no  lonely  mountain  peak  of  mind, 

Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 

A  sea  mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind ; 

Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level  lined, 

Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 

Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 

Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 

Ere  any  names  of  serf  or  peer 

Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 

And  thwart  her  genial  will ; 

Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 

And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face. 

I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late ; 

And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 

In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 

Such  as  the  present  gives  and  can  not  wait, 

Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 

So  always  firmly  he : 

He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 

And  can  his  fame  abide, 

Still  patient  in  his  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Great  captains  with  their  guns  and  drums, 

Disturb  our  judgment  of  the  hour, 

But  at  last  Silence  comes; 

These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 

Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 

Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 

New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 


LINCOLN 

James  Whit  comb  Riley 

A  peaceful  life ; — just  toil  and  rest— 

All  his  desire ; — 
To  read  the  books  he  liked  the  best 

Beside  the  cabin  fire — 
God's  word  and  man's ; — to  peer  sometimes 

Above  the  page,  in  smouldering  gleams, 
And  catch,  like  far  heroic  rhymes, 

The  onmarch  of  his  dreams. 

A  peaceful  life; — to  hear  the  low 

Of  pastured  herds, 
Or  woodman's  axe  that,  blow  on  blow, 

Fell  sweet  as  rhythmic  words. 
And  yet  there  stirred  within  his  breast 

A  fateful  pulse  that,  like  a  roll 
Of  drums,  made  high  above  his  rest 

A  tumult  in  his  soul. 

A  peaceful  life !    .    .    .    They  haled  him  even 

As  One  was  haled 
Whose  open  palms  were  nailed  toward  Heaven 

When  prayers  nor  aught  availed. 

7 


THE    PRAISE    OF    LINCOLN 

And,  lo,  he  paid  the  selfsame  price 
To  lull  a  nation's  awful  strife 

And  will  us,  through  the  sacrifice 
Of  self,  his  peaceful  life. 


LINCOLN 

Julia  Ward  Howe 

Through  the  dim  pageant  of  the  years 
A  wondrous  tracery  appears ; 
A  cabin  of  the  Western  wild 
Shelters  to  sleep  a  newborn  child. 

Nor  nurse,  nor  parent  dear  can  know 
The  way  those  infant  feet  must  go ; 
And  yet  a  nation's  help  and  hope 
Are  sealed  within  that  horoscope. 

Beyond  is  toil  for  daily  bread 
And  thought,  to  noble  issues  led, 
And  courage  arming  for  the  morn 
For  whose  behest  this  man  was  born. 

A  man  of  homely,  rustic  ways, 
Yet  he  achieves  the  forum's  praise, 
And  soon  earth's  highest  meed  has  won, 
The  seat  and  sway  of  Washington. 

No  throne  of  honors  and  delights ; 
Distrustful  days  and  sleepless  nights, 
To  struggle,  suffer,  and  aspire, 
Like  Israel,  led  by  cloud  and  fire. 


8 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

A  treacherous  shot,  a  sob  of  rest, 
A  martyr's  palm  upon  his  breast, 
A  welcome  from  the  glorious  seat 
Where  blameless  souls  of  heroes  meet. 

And  thrilling  through  unmeasured  days, 
A  song  of  gratitude  and  praise ; 
A  cry  that  all  the  earth  shall  heed, 
To  God,  who  gave  him  for  our  need. 


AN  APPRECIATION  OF  LINCOLN 

Rob er His  Love 

Somewhar  down  thar  round  Hodgenville,  Kaintucky, 

Or  tharabouts,  a  hundred  year  ago, 
Was  born  a  boy  ye  wouldn'  thought  was  lucky ; 

Looked  like  he  never  wouldn'  have  a  show. 

But     ...     I  don'  know. 
That  boy  was  started  middlin'  well,  I'm  thinkin'. 
His  name?    W'y,  it  was  Abraham — Abe  Lincoln. 

Pore  whites  his  folks  was  ?    Yes,  as  pore  as  any. 

Them  pioneers,  they  wa'n't  no  plutocrats ; 
Belonged  right  down  among  the  humble  many, 

And  no  more  property  than  dogs  or  cats. 

But     .     .     .     maybe  that's 
As  good  a  way  as  any  for  a  startin'. 
Abe  Lincoln,  he  riz  middlin'  high,  for  sartin ! 

Somehow  I've  always  had  a  sort  o'  sneakin' 

Idee  that  peddygrees  is  purty  much 
Like  monkeys'  tails — so  long  they're  apt  to  weaken 

The  yap  that  drags  'em  round.    No  use  for  such ! 

But     .     .     .     beats  the  Dutch 
How  now  and  then  a  lad  like  little  Aby 
Grows  up  a  president — or  guvnor,  maybe. 

9 


THE   PRAISE   OF  LINCOLN 

Abe  Lincoln  never  had  no  reg'lar  schoolin' ; 

He  never  quarterbacked  nor  pulled  stroke  oar, 
Nor  never  spent  his  time  and  money  foolin' 

With  buried  langwidges  and  ancient  lore. 

But     .     .     .     Abe  l'arned  more 
To  set  him  forrerd  in  the  human  film' 
Than  all  the  college  fellers'  kit  and  bilin\ 

Abe  Lincoln  never  did  git  hifalutin' — < 
Not  even  thar  in  Washin'ton,  D.  C. 

He  jist  kep'  common,  humble,  ord'n'ry,  suitin' 
His  backwoods  corn  patch  raisin'  to  a  T. 
But     ,     .     .     jiminy  gee ! 

W'y,  Abe  was  any  statesman's  peer  and  ekul 

And  wise  as  Solomon  or  old  Ezekul. 

I  reckon,  I'm  a  bit  old-fashioned,  maybe, 
But  when  I  want  a  pattern  for  a  man 

I'm  middlin'  shore  to  measure  Father  Aby 
And  cut  to  fit  his  homely  human  plan. 
And  long's  I  can 

I'm  hootin'  loud  and  rootin'  proud,  by  hucky, 

For  that  old  boy  from  Hodgenville,  Kaintucky. 


LINCOLN 

Samuel  E.  Kiser 

New  heroes  rise  above  the  toiling  throng, 
And  daily  come  resplendent  into  view, 
And  pass  again,  remembered  by  a  few, 

To  leave  one  form  in  bold  relief  and  strong 

That  higher  looms  as  ages  march  along ; 
One  name  that  lingers  in  the  memory,  too, 

And  singers  through  all  time  shall  raise  the  song 
And  keep  it  swelling  loud  and  ringing  true  I 
10 


THE   PRAISE   OF  LINCOLN 

Lo,  where  the  feet  of  Lincoln  passed,  the  earth 
Is  sacred,  where  he  knelt  we  set  a  shrine  1 

Oh,  to  have  pressed  his  hand !  That  had  sufficed 

To  make  my  children  wonder  at  my  worth — 
Yet,  let  them  glory,  since  their  land  and  mine 

Hath  reared  the  greatest  martyr  after  Christ ! 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Virginia  Fraser  Boyle 

(Written  for  the  Centennial  Celebration,  February  lath,  10*9,  by 
Invitation  of  the  Philadelphia  Brigade  Association — Penna.) 

"The  mystic  chords  of  memory,  stretching  from  every  battlefield 
and  patriot  grave  to  every  living  heart  and  hearthstone,  all  over 
this  broad  land,  will  yet  swell  the  chorus  of  the  Union,  when  again 
touched,  as  surely  they  will  be,  by  the  angels  of  our  better  na- 
ture."— Abraham  Lincoln. 

No  trumpet  blared  the  word  that  he  was  born, 
Nor  lightning  flashed  its  symbols  on  the  day ; 

And  only  Poverty  and  Fate  pressed  on, 

To  serve  as  handmaids  where  he  lowly  lay. 

No  royal  trappings  fell  to  his  rude  part, — 

A  simple  hut  and  labor  were  its  goal ; 
But  Fate,  stern-eyed,  had  held  him  to  her  heart, 

And  left  a  greatness  on  his  rugged  soul. 

And  up  from  earth  and  toil,  he  slowly  won,— 
Pressed  by  a  bitterness  he  proudly  spurned, 

Till  by  grim  courage,  born  from  sun  to  sun, 
He  turned  defeat,  as  victory  is  turned. 

Sired  deep  in  destiny,  he  backward  threw 
The  old  heredities  that  men  have  known ; 

And  round  his  gaunt  and  homely  form  he  drew 

The  fierce  white  light  that  greatness  makes  its  own. 

II 


THE    PRAISE   OF    LINCOLN 

Sad-eyed  and  wan,  yet  strong  to  do  the  right, — 
To  clear  the  truth,  as  God  gave  him  to  see, 

He  held  a  raging  country  by  his  might, 
Before  the  iron  hour  of  destiny. 

Nor  flame  nor  sword  nor  silver  tongues  availed 
To  turn  his  passion  from  its  steady  flow ; 

The  compact  of  the  Fathers  had  not  failed, — 
He  would  not  let  an  angered  people  go ! — 

He  stood  in  calm,  while  shaking  chaos  swept 
The  Union, — North  and  South,  in  seething  flood. 

And  on  his  knees  the  griefs  of  both  he  wept, — 
But  kept  unbroke,  the  compact  sealed  in  blood. 

He  saw  the  sullen  smoke  of  battle  lift, 

That  closed  the  carnage  of  the  war  of  wars ; 

And  on  the  height,  hailed  through  the  azure  rift 
The  flag  whose  folds  have  never  dipped  its  stars. 

But  amnesty  was  in  the  conquering  hand 

That  yearned  across  the  silent  cannon's  mouth ; — 

When  with  the  knell  that  startled  all  the  land, 
There  died  the  last  hope  of  the  bleeding  South ! — 

With  gentle  tread,  time  wears  upon  the  past. 

The  field  of  blood  is  dried,  the  waste  is  tilled ; 
And  by  the  light  of  peace  around  them  cast, 

Men  read  the  earnest  prophecy,  fulfilled. 

There  is  no  woe  in  this  broad  land  to-day, 
Held  in  the  bonds  of  faith,  forever  one; 

The  golden  glow  of  progress  leads  the  way, 

Where  once  the  guns  of  wrath  have  darkly  shone. 


12 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Here  rest  their  arms,  while  deathless  glory  tells 
The  watch  of  time  for  all  the  true  and  brave, — 

And  here  the  grandeur  of  a  Nation  dwells, — 
The  Union,  that  a  Lincoln  died  to  save ! — 


THE  CENOTAPH  OF  LINCOLN 

James  T.  McKay 

And  so  they  buried  Lincoln  ?    Strange  and  vain. 

Has  any  creature  thought  of  Lincoln  hid 

In  any  vault  'neath  any  coffin  lid, 
In  all  the  years  since  that  wild  spring  of  pain  ? 
'Tis  false — he  never  in  the  grave  hath  lain. 

You  could  not  bury  him  although  you  slid 

Upon  his  clay  the  Cheops  Pyramid, 
Or  heaped  it  with  the  Rocky  Mountain  chain. 
They  slew  themselves ; — they  but  set  Lincoln  free. 

In  all  the  earth  his  great  heart  beats  as  strong, 
Shall  beat  while  pulses  throb  to  chivalry, 

And  burn  with  hate  of  tyranny  and  wrong. 
Whoever  will  may  find  him,  anywhere 
Save  in  the  tomb.    Not  there — he  is  not  there. 


LINCOLN,  THE  MAN  OF  THE 
PEOPLE 

Edwin  Markham 

When  the  Norn  Mother  saw  the  Whirlwind  Hour 

Greatening  and  darkening  as  it  hurried  on, 

She  left  the  Heaven  of  Heroes  and  came  down 

To  make  a  man  to  meet  the  mortal  need. 

She  took  the  tried  clay  of  the  common  road — 

Clay  warm  yet  with  the  ancient  heat  of  Earth, 

13 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Dashed  through  it  all  a  strain  of  prophecy; 
Tempered  the  heap  with  thrill  of  human  tears; 
Then  mixed  a  laughter  with  the  serious  stuff. 
Into  the  shape  she  breathed  a  flame  to  light 
That  tender,  tragic,  ever-changing  face. 
Here  was  a  man  to  hold  against  the  world, 
A  man  to  match  the  mountains  and  the  sea. 

The  color  of  the  ground  was  in  him,  the  red  earth; 

The  smack  and  tang  of  elemental  things : 

The  rectitude  and  patience  of  the  cliff; 

The  good-will  of  the  rain  that  loves  all  leaves; 

The  friendly  welcome  of  the  wayside  well ; 

The  courage  of  the  bird  that  dares  the  sea; 

The  gladness  of  the  wind  that  shakes  the  corn; 

The  mercy  of  the  snow  that  hides  all  scars; 

The  secrecy  of  streams  that  make  their  way 

Beneath  the  mountain  to  the  rifted  rock; 

The  undelaying  justice  of  the  light 

That  gives  as  freely  to  the  shrinking  flower 

As  to  the  great  oak  flaring  to  the  wind — 

To  the  grave's  low  hill  as  to  the  Matterhorn 

That  shoulders  out  the  sky. 

Sprung  from  the  West, 
The  strength  of  virgin  forests  braced  his  mind, 
The  hush  of  spacious  prairies  stilled  his  soul. 
Up  from  log  cabin  to  the  Capitol, 
One  fire  was  on  his  spirit,  one  resolve- 
To  send  the  keen  ax  to  the  root  of  wrong, 
Clearing  a  free  way  for  the  feet  of  God. 
And  evermore  he  burned  to  do  his  deed 
With  the  fine  stroke  and  gesture  of  a  king : 
He  built  the  rail-pile  as  he  built  the  State, 
Pouring  his  splendid  strength  through  every  blow, 
The  conscience  of  him  testing  every  stroke, 
To  make  his  deed  the  measure  of  a  man. 

*4 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

So  came  the  Captain  with  the  thinking  heart  ; 
And  when  the  judgment  thunders  split  the  house, 
Wrenching  the  rafters  from  their  ancient  rest, 
He  held  the  ridgepole  up,  and  spiked  again 
The  rafters  of  the  Home.    He  held  his  place — 
Held  the  long  purpose  like  a  growing  tree — 
Held  on  through  blame  and  faltered  not  at  praise, 
And  when  he  fell  in  whirlwind,  he  went  down 
As  when  a  lordly  cedar,  green  with  boughs, 
Goes  down  with  a  great  shout  upon  the  hills, 
And  leaves  a  lonesome  place  against  the  sky. 


IN  MEMORIAM:    ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

Emily  J.  Bugbee 

There's  a  burden  of  grief  on  the  breezes  of  spring, 
And  a  song  of  regret  from  the  bird  on  its  wing; 
There's  a  pall  on  the  sunshine  and  over  the  flowers, 
And  a  shadow  of  graves  on  these  spirits  of  ours ; 
For  a  star  hath  gone  out  from  the  night  of  our  sky, 
On  whose  brightness  we  gazed  as  the  war  cloud  rolled 

by; 
So  tranquil  and  steady  and  clear  were  its  beams, 
That  they  fell  like  a  vision  of  peace  on  our  dreams. 

A  heart  that  we  knew  had  been  true  to  our  weal, 
And  a  hand  that  was  steadily  guiding  the  wheel ; 
A  name  never  tarnished  by  falsehood  or  wrong, 
That  had  dwelt  in  our  hearts  like  a  soul-stirring  song; 
Ah,  that  pure,  noble  spirit  has  gone  to  its  rest, 
And  the  true  hand  lies  nerveless  and  cold  on  his  breast ; 
But  the  name  and  the  memory,  these  never  will  die, 
But  grow  brighter  and  dearer  as  ages  go  by. 

IS 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

Yet  the  tears  of  a  nation  fall  over  the  dead, 

Such  tears  as  a  nation  before  never  shed, 

For  our  cherished  one  fell  by  a  dastardly  hand, 

A  martyr  to  truth  and  the  cause  of  the  land ; 

And  a  sorrow  has  surged  like  the  waves  to  the  shore 

When  the  breath  of  the  tempest  is  sweeping  them  o'er; 

And  the  heads  of  the  lofty  and  lowly  have  bowed 

As  the  shaft  of  the  lightning  sped  out  from  the  cloud. 

Not  gathered,  like  Washington,  home  to  his  rest, 
When  the  sun  of  his  life  was  far  down  in  the  West ; 
But  stricken  from  earth  in  the  midst  of  his  years, 
With  the  Canaan  in  view  of  his  prayers  and  his  tears ; 
And  the  people,  whose  hearts  in  the  wilderness  failed, 
Sometimes,  when  the  stars  of  their  promise  had  paled, 
Now  stand  by  his  side  on  the  mount  of  his  fame, 
And  yield  him  their  hearts  in  a  grateful  acclaim. 

Yet  there  on  the  mountain  our  leader  must  die, 

With  the  fair  land  of  promise  spread  out  to  his  eye ; 

His  work  is  accomplished,  and  what  he  has  done 

Will  stand  as  a  monument  under  the  sun ; 

And  his  name,  reaching  down  through  the  ages  of  time, 

Will  still  through  the  years  of  eternity  shine, 

Like  a  star  sailing  on  through  the  depths  of  the  blue, 

On  whose  brightness  we  gaze  every  evening  anew. 

His  white  tent  is  pitched  on  the  beautiful  plain, 
Where  the  tumult  of  battle  comes  never  again, 
Where  the  smoke  of  the  war  cloud  ne'er  darkens  the 

air, 
Nor  falls  on  the  spirit  a  shadow  of  care. 
The  songs  of  the  ransomed  enrapture  his  ear, 
And  he  heeds  not  the  dirges  that  roll  for  him  here; 
In  the  calm  of  his  spirit,  so  strange  and  sublime, 
He  is  lifted  far  over  the  discords  of  time. 

16 


THE    PRAISE    OF    LINCOLN 

Then  bear  him  home  gently,  great  son  of  the  West ! 
'Mid  her  fair  blooming  prairies  lay  Lincoln  to  rest ; 
From  the  nation  who  loves  him  she  takes  to  her  trust, 
And  will  tenderly  garner  the  consecrate  dust. 
A  Mecca  his  grave  to  the  people  shall  be, 
A  shrine  evermore  to  the  hearts  of  the  free. 


AT  LINCOLN'S  GRAVE 

Maurice  Thompson 

May  one  who  fought  in  honor  for  the  South 
Uncovered  stand  and  sing  by  Lincoln's  grave  ? 
Why,  if  I  shrank  not  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Nor  swerved  one  inch  for  any  battle-wave, 
Should  I  now  tremble  in  this  quiet  close, 
Hearing  the  prairie  wind  go  lightly  by 
From  billowy  plains  of  grass  and  miles  of  corn, 

While  out  of  deep  repose, 
The  great  sweet  spirit  lifts  itself  on  high 
And  broods  above  our  land  this  summer  morn? 

I,  mindful  of  a  dark  and  bitter  past, 

And  of  its  clashing  hopes  and  raging  hates, 

Still,  standing  here,  invoke  a  love  so  vast 

It  cancels  all  and  all  obliterates, 

Save  love  itself,  which  can  not  harbor  wrong; 

Oh,  for  a  voice  of  boundless  melody, 

A  voice  to  fill  heaven's  hollow  to  the  brim 

With  one  brave  burst  of  song, 
Stronger  than  tempest,  nobler  than  the  sea, 
That  I  might  lend  it  to  a  song  of  him ! 


17 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Meseems  I  feel  his  presence.    Is  he  dead  ? 

Death  is  a  word.    He  lives  and  grander  grows. 

At  Gettysburg  he  bows  his  bleeding  head ; 

He  spreads  his  arms  where  Chickamanga  flows, 

As  if  to  clasp  old  soldiers  to  his  breast, 

Of  South  or  North,  no  matter  which  they  be, 

Not  thinking  of  what  uniform  they  wore, — 

His  heart  the  palimpsest 
Record  on  record  of  humanity, 
Where  love  is  first  and  last  for  evermore. 

His  humor,  born  of  virile  opulence, 
Stung  like  a  pungent  sap  or  wild-fruit  zest, 
And  satisfied  a  universal  sense 
Of  manliness,  the  strongest  and  the  best; 
A  soft  Kentucky  strain  was  in  his  voice, 
And  the  Ohio's  deeper  boom  was  there, 
With  some  wild  accents  of  old  Wabash  days, 

And  winds  of  Illinois; 
And  when  he  spoke  he  took  us  unaware, 
With  his  high  courage  and  unselfish  ways. 

He  was  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  the  West, 

The  thrall,  the  master,  all  of  us  in  one ; 

There  was  no  section  that  he  held  the  best ; 

His  love  shone  as  impartial  as  the  sun ; 

And  so  revenge  appealed  to  him  in  vain, 

He  smiled  at  it  as  at  a  thing  forlorn, 

And  gently  put  it  from  him,  rose  and  stood 

A  moment's  space  in  pain, 
Remembering  the  prairies  and  the  corn 
And  the  glad  voices  of  the  field  and  wood. 

Annealed  in  white-hot  fire,  he  bore  the  test 
Of  every  strain  temptation  could  invent, — 
Hard  points  of  slander,  shivered  on  his  breast, 
Fell  at  his  feet,  and  envy's  blades  were  bent 
18 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

In  his  bare  hands  and  lightly  cast  aside: 
He  would  not  wear  a  shield ;  no  selfish  aim 
Guided  one  thought  of  all  those  trying  hours ; 

No  breath  of  pride, 
No  pompous  striving  for  the  pose  of  fame 
Weakened  one  stroke  of  all  his  noble  powers. 


PRESIDENT  LINCOLN'S  GRAVE 

Caroline  A.  Mason 

Lay  his  dear  ashes  where  ye  will, — 
On  southern  slope  or  western  hill ; 
And  build  above  his  sacred  name 
Your  proudest  monument  of  fame ; 
Yet  still  his  grave  our  hearts  shall  be; 
His  monument  a  people  free ! 

Sing  sweet,  sing  low ; 

We  loved  him  so ! 
His  grave  a  nation's  heart  shall  be, 
His  monument  a  people  free ! 

Wave,  prairie  winds!  above  his  sleep 
Your  mournful  dirges,  long  and  deep; 
Proud  marble !  o'er  his  virtues  raise 
The  tribute  of  your  glittering  praise ; 
Yet  still  his  grave  our  hearts  shall  be ; 
His  monument  a  people  free ! 

Sing  sweet,  sing  low ; 

We  loved  him  so ! 
His  grave  a  nation's  heart  shall  be ; 
His  monument  a  people  free ! 

So  just,  so  merciful,  so  wise, 
Ye  well  may  shrine  him  where  he  lies ; 
So  simply  good,  so  great  the  while 
Ye  well  may  raise  the  marble  pile ; 

19 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Yet  still  his  grave  our  hearts  shall  be ; 
His  monument  a  people  free ! 

Sing  sweet,  sing  low ; 

We  loved  him  so ! 
His  grave  a  nation's  heart  shall  be ; 
His  monument  a  people  free ! 


LINCOLN 

Authorship  Unknown 

Lincoln  !    When  men  would  name  a  man, 
Just,  unperturbed,  magnanimous, 

Tried  in  the  lowest  seat  of  all, 

Tried  in  the  chief  seat  of  the  house — 

Lincoln !    When  men  would  name  a  man 
Who  wrought  the  great  work  of  his  age, 

Who  fought  and  fought  the  noblest  fight, 
And  marshaled  it  from  stage  to  stage, 

Victorious,  out  of  dusk  and  dark, 
And  into  dawn  and  on  till  day, 

Most  humble  when  the  paeans  rang, 
Least  rigid  when  the  enemy  lay 

Prostrated  for  his  feet  to  tread — 

This  name  of  Lincoln  will  they  name, 

A  name  revered,  a  name  of  scorn, 
Of  scorn  to  sundry,  not  to  fame. 

Lincoln,  the  man  who  freed  the  slave ; 

Lincoln  whom  never  self  enticed; 
Slain  Lincoln,  worthy  found  to  die 

A  soldier  of  his  Captain  Christ. 

20 


AT  LINCOLN'S  TOMB 

Robertas  Love 

(Being  the  Reminiscences  of  the  Honorable  Jason  Pettigrew,  of 
Calhoun  County,  Illinois,  in  1895) 

Abe  Lincoln?    Wull,  I  reckon!    Not  a  mile  f'om 

where  we  be, 
Right  here  in  Springfiel',  Illinoise,  Abe  used  to  room 

with  me. 
He  represented  Sangamon,  I  tried  it  for  Calhoun, 
And  me  and  Abe  was  cronies  then;  I'll  not  forgit  it 

soon. 

I'll  not  forgit  them  happy  days  we  used  to  sort  o'  batch 
Together  in  a  little  room  that  didn't  have  no  latch 
To  keep  the  other  fellers  out  that  liked  to  come  and 

stay 
And  hear  them  dasted  funny  things  Abe  Lincoln  used 

to  say. 

Them  days  Abe  Lincoln  and  myself  was  pore  as  any- 
thing; 

Job's  turkey  wasn't  porer,  but  we  used  to  laff  and  sing, 

And  Abe  was  clean  chuck  full  o'  fun,  but  he  was  sharp 
as  tacks, 

For  that  there  comic  face  o'  his'n  was  fortyfied  with 
fac's. 

Some  fellers  used  to  laff  at  Abe  because  his  boots  and 

pants 
Appeared  to  be  on  distant  terms,  but  when  he'd  git  a 

chance 
He'd  give  'em  sich  a  drubbin'  that  they'd  clean  forgit 

his  looks, 
For  Abe  made  up  in  common  sense  the  things  he  lacked 

in  books. 

21 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Wull,  nex'  election  I  got  beat,  and  Abe  come  back 

alone ; 
I  kep'  a-clinkin'  on  the  farm,  pervidin'  for  my  own. 
You  see,  I  had  a  woman  and  two  twins  that  called  me 

paw, 
And  Abe  he  kep'  a-clinkin',  too,  at  politics  and  law. 

I  didn't  hear  much  more  of  Abe  out  there  in  old  Cal- 
houn, 

For  I  was  out  o'  politics  and  kinder  out  o'  chune 

With  things  that  happened,  but  'way  back  I'd  named 
my  two  twin  boys — 

One  Abraham,  one  Lincoln — finest  team  in  Illinoise. 

Wull,  here  one  day  I  read  that  Abe's  among  the  can- 
didates 

(My  old  friend  Abe!)  for  president  o'  these  United 
States. 

And,  though  I  had  the  rheumatiz  and  felt  run-down 
and  blue, 

I  entered  politics  ag'in  and  helped  to  pull  him  through. 

And  when  nex'  spring  he  called  for  men  to  fetch  their 
grit  and  guns 

And  keep  the  ship  o'  state  afloat  I  sent  him  both  my 
sons, 

And  would  'a'  gone  myself  and  loved  to  make  the  bul- 
lets whiz 

'F  it  hadn't  b'en  I  couldn't  walk  account  o'  rheumatiz. 

Wull,  Abe — my  little  Abe,  I  mean — he  started  out 

with  Grant ; 
They  buried  him  at  Shiloh.    .    .    .    Excuse  me,  but  I 

can't 
Help  feelin'  father-like,  you  know,  for  them  was  likely 

boys; 
The'  wasn't  two  another  sich  that  went  f'om  Illinoise. 

22 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  Lincoln — my  son  Lincoln — he  went  on  by  his- 

self, 
A-grievin'  for  his  brother  Abe  they'd  laid  upon  the 

shelf, 
And  when  he  come  to  Vicksburg  he  was  all  thrashed 

out  and  sick, 
And  yit  when  there  was  fightin'  Link  fit  right  in  the 

thick. 

One  night  afore  them  Johnnies'  guns  my  pore  boy 

went  to  sleep 
On  picket  dooty.    .    .    .    No,  sir;  'tain't  the  shame 

that  makes  me  weep. 
It's  how  Abe  Lincoln,  president,  at  Washin'ton,  D.  C, 
Had  time  to  ricolleck  the  days  he  used  to  room  with 

me! 

For  don't  you  know  I  wrote  to  him  they'd  sentenced  to 

be  shot 
His  namesake,  Lincoln  Pettigrew,  in  shame  to  die  and 

rot, 
The  son  o'  his  old  crony  and  the  last  o'  my  twin  boys 
He  used  to  plague  me  so  about  at  Springfiel',  Illinoise. 

Did  he  ?    Did  Abe  ?    Wull,  now,  he  sent  a  telegraph  so 

quick 
It  burnt  them  bottles  on  the  poles  and  made  the  light- 

nin'  sick! 
"I  pardon  Lincoln  Pettigrew.    A.  Lincoln,  President." 
The  boy  has  got  that  paper  yit,  the  telegraph  Abe  sent. 

I  guess  I  knowed  Abe  Lincoln,  and  now  I've  come 
down  here — 

Firs'  time  I  be'n  in  Springfiel'  for  nigh  on  sixty  year — 

To  see  his  grave  and  tombstone,  because  .  .  .  be- 
cause, you  see, 

We  legislated  in  cahoots,  Abe  Lincoln  did,  and  me. 

23 


ON  THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 

This  bronze  doth  keep  the  very  form  and  mold 
Of  our  great  martyr's  face.    Yes,  this  is  he : 
That  brow  all  wisdom,  all  benignity ; 
That  human,  humorous  mouth;  those  cheeks  that 
hold 

Like  some  harsh  landscape  all  the  summer's  gold ; 
That  spirit  fit  for  sorrow,  as  the  sea 
For  storms  to  beat  on ;  the  lone  agony 
Those  silent,  patient  lips  too  well  foretold. 

Yes,  this  is  he  who  ruled  a  world  of  men 
As  might  some  prophet  of  the  elder  day — 
Brooding  above  the  tempest  and  the  fray 

With  deep-eyed  thought  and  more  than  mortal  ken. 
A  power  was  his  beyond  the  touch  of  art 
Or  armed  strength — his  pure  and  mighty  heart. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  LINCOLN 

Edna  Dean  Proctor 

Now  must  the  storied  Potomac 

Laurels  for  ever  divide, 
Now  to  the  Sangamon  fameless 

Give  of  its  century's  pride. 
Sangamon,  stream  of  the  prairies, 

Placidly  westward  that  flows, 
Far  in  whose  city  of  silence 

Calm  he  has  sought  his  repose. 
Over  our  Washington's  river 

Sunrise  beams  rosy  and  fair, 
Sunset  on  Sangamon  fairer — 

Father  and  martyr  lies  there. 
24 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Kings  under  pyramids  slumber, 

Sealed  in  the  Lybian  sands ; 
Princes  in  gorgeous  cathedrals 

Decked  with  the  spoil  of  the  lands. 
Kinglier,  princelier  sleeps  he 

Couched  'mid  the  prairies  serene, 
Only  the  turf  and  the  willow 

Him  and  God's  heaven  between ! 
Temple  nor  column  to  cumber 

Verdure  and  bloom  of  the  sod — 
So,  in  the  vale  by  Beth-peor, 

Moses  was  buried  of  God. 

Break  into  blossom,  O  prairies ! 

Snowy  and  golden  and  red ; 
Peers  of  the  Palestine  lilies 

Heap  for  your  glorious  dead ! 
Roses  as  fair  as  of  Sharon, 

Branches  as  stately  as  palm, 
Odors  as  rich  as  the  spices — 

Cassia  and  aloes  and  balm — 
Mary  the  loved  and  Salome, 

All  with  a  gracious  accord, 
Ere  the  first  glow  of  the  morning 

Brought  to  the  tomb  of  the  Lord. 

Wind  of  the  West !  breathe  around  him 

Soft  as  the  saddened  air's  sigh 
When  to  the  summit  of  Pisgah 

Moses  had  journeyed  to  die. 
Clear  as  its  anthem  that  floated 

Wide  o'er  the  Moabite  plain, 
Low  with  the  wail  of  the  people 

Blending  its  burdened  refrain. 


25 


THE   PRAISE   OF  LINCOLN 

Rarer,  O  Wind !  and  diviner, — 
Sweet  as  the  breeze  that  went  by, 

When,  over  Olivet's  mountain, 
Jesus  was  lost  in  the  sky. 

Not  for  thy  sheaves  and  savannas 

Crown  we  thee,  proud  Illinois ! 
Here  in  his  grave  is  thy  grandeur ; 

Born  of  his  sorrow  thy  joy. 
Only  the  tomb  by  Mount  Zion 

Hewn  for  the  Lord  do  we  hold 
Dearer  than  his  in  thy  prairies, 

Girdled  with  harvests  of  gold. 
Still  for  the  world,  through  the  ages 

Wreathing  with  glory  his  brow, 
He  shall  be  Liberty's  Savior — 

Freedom's  Jerusalem  thou ! 


THE  HAND  OF  LINCOLN 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

Look  on  this  cast,  and  know  the  hand 

That  bore  a  nation  in  its  hold ; 
From  this  mute  witness  understand 

What  Lincoln  was — how  large  of  mold. 

The  man  who  sped  the  woodman's  team, 
And  deepest  sunk  the  plowman's  share, 

And  pushed  the  laden  raft  astream, 
Of  fate  before  him  unaware. 

This  was  the  hand  that  knew  to  swing 

The  axe — since  thus  would  Freedom  train 

Her  son — and  made  the  forest  ring, 
And  drove  the  wedge,  and  toiled  amain. 
26 


THE   PRAISE  OF  LINCOLN 

Firm  hand,  that  loftier  office  took, 
A  conscious  leader's  will  obeyed, 

And,  when  men  sought  his  word  and  look, 
.With  steadfast  might  the  gathering  swayed. 

No  courtier's,  toying  with  a  sword, 
Nor  minstrel's,  laid  across  a  lute ; 

A  chief's,  uplifted  to  the  Lord 

When  all  the  kings  of  earth  were  mute ! 

The  hand  of  Anak,  sinewed  strong, 
The  fingers  that  on  greatness  clutch ; 

Yet,  lo !  the  marks  their  lines  along 
Of  one  who  strove  and  suffered  much. 

For  here  in  knotted  cord  and  vein, 
I  trace  the  varying  chart  of  years ; 

I  know  the  troubled  heart,  the  strain, 
The  weight  of  Atlas — and  the  tears. 

Again  I  see  the  patient  brow 

That  palm  erewhile  was  wont  to  press ; 
And  now  'tis  furrowed  deep,  and  now 

Made  smooth  with  hope  and  tenderness. 

For  something  of  a  formless  grace 
This  molded  outline  plays  about ; 

A  pitying  flame,  beyond  our  trace, 
Breathes  like  a  spirit,  in  and  out. 

The  love  that  casts  an  aureole 

Round  one  who,  longer  to  endure, 

Called  mirth  to  ease  his  ceaseless  dole, 
Yet  kept  his  nobler  purpose  sure. 


27 


THE    PRAISE    OF    LINCOLN 

Lo,  as  I  gaze,  the  statured  man, 

Built  up  from  yon  large  hand,  appears; 

A  type  that  nature  wills  to  plan 
But  once  in  all  a  people's  years. 

What  better  than  this  voiceless  cast 

To  tell  of  such  a  one  as  he, 
Since  through  its  living  semblance  passed 

The  thought  that  bade  a  race  be  free. 


THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

Stuart  Sterne 
(At  the  National  Museum  in  Washington) 

Ah,  countless  wonders  brought  from  every  zone, 
Not  all  your  wealth  could  turn  the  heart  away 
From  that  one  semblance  of  our  common  clay, 
The  brow  whereon  the  precious  life  long  flown 

Leaving  a  homely  glory  all  its  own, 

Seems  still  to  linger,  with  a  mournful  play 
Of  light  and  shadow ! — His,  who  held  a  sway 
And  power  of  magic  to  himself  unknown, 

Through  what  is  granted  but  God's  chosen  few, 
Earth's  crownless,  yet  anointed  kings, — a  soul 
Divinely  simple  and  sublimely  true 

In  that  unconscious  greatness  that  shall  bless 
This  petty  world  while  stars  their  courses  roll, 
Whose  finest  flower  is  self-forgetfulness. 


28 


THE  LIBERATOR 

Horace  Spencer  Fiske 
(Saint  Gaudens'  Lincoln,  Lincoln  Park,  Chicago) 

Uprisen  from  his  fasced  chair  of  state, 
Above  his  riven  people  bending  grave, 
His  heart  upon  the  sorrow  of  the  slave, 

Stands  simply  strong  the  kindly  man  of  fate, 

By  war's  deep  bitterness  and  brothers'  hate 
Untouched  he  stands,  intent  alone  to  save 
What  God  Himself  and  human  justice  gave; 

The  right  of  men  to  freedom's  fair  estate. 

In  human  strength  he  towers  almost  divine, 
His  mighty  shoulders  bent  with  breaking  care, 

His  thought-worn  face  with  sympathies  grown  fine ; 
And  as  men  gaze,  their  hearts  as  oft  declare 

That  this  is  he  whom  all  their  hearts  enshrine — 

This  man  that  saved  a  race  from  slow  despair. 


LINCOLN  IN  BRONZE 

Robertus  Love 
(In  Lincoln  Park,  Chicago) 

Here  do  I  look  upon  historic  form 

Fashioned  in  bronze  grown  cold,  but  glowing  yet- 
In  our  Columbia's  memory-casket  set 

A  sovereign  jewel.    Earth's  unconscious  storm 

May  beat  upon  and  work  the  statue  harm  ; 
Old  Time  may  topple  it  without  regret. 
Perish  the  bronze !    But  we  will  not  forget 

The  great  heart  for  its  brothers  beating  warm. 

29 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

The  hand  of  Lincoln,  bronzed  by  honest  toil 
That  drove  the  ax  to  fell  the  forest  oak, 

Then  working  up  amid  the  world's  turmoil, 
At  one  proud  blow  four  million  fetters  broke : 

It  is  not  dust — still  does  it  reach  and  clasp 

Past,  Present,  Future,  in  its  kindly  grasp. 


THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 
(Park  Square,  Boston) 

Amidst  thy  sacred  effigies 
Of  old  renown  give  place, 

O  city,  Freedom-loved !  to  his 
Whose  hand  unchained  a  race. 

Take  the  worn  frame,  that  rested  not 

Save  in  a  martyr's  grave ; 
The  care-lined  face,  that  none  forgot, 

Bent  to  the  kneeling  slave. 

Let  man  be  free !  The  mighty  word 
He  spoke  was  not  his  own ; 

An  impulse  from  the  Highest  stirred 
These  chiseled  lips  alone. 

The  cloudy  sign,  the  fiery  guide, 

Along  his  pathway  ran, 
And  Nature,  through  his  voice,  denied 

The  ownership  of  man. 

We  rest  in  peace  where  these  sad  eyes 

Saw  peril,  strife  and  pain ; 
His  was  the  nation's  sacrifice, 

And  ours  the  priceless  gain. 

30 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

O  symbol  of  God's  will  on  earth 

As  it  is  done  above ! 
Bear  witness  to  the  cost  and  worth 

Of  justice  and  of  love. 

Stand  in  thy  place  and  testify 

To  coming  ages  long, 
That  truth  is  stronger  than  a  lie, 

And  righteousness  than  wrong. 


ENGLAND'S  SORROW 

Authorship  Unknown — From  London  Fun 

The  hand  of  an  assassin,  glowing  red, 

Shot  like  a  firebrand  through  the  western  sky; 
And  stalwart  Abraham  Lincoln  now  is  dead ! 

Oh,  felon  heart  that  thus  could  basely  dye 
The  name  of  Southerner  with  murderous  gore! 

Could  such  a  spirit  come  from  mortal  womb? 
And  what  possessed  it  that  not  heretofore 

It  linked  its  coward  mission  with  the  tomb? 
Lincoln !  thy  fame  shall  sound  through  many  an  age, 

To  prove  that  genius  lives  in  humble  birth ; 
Thy  name  shall  sound  upon  historic  page, 

For  'midst  thy  faults  we  all  esteemed  thy  worth. 
Gone  art  thou  now !  no  more  'midst  angry  heat 

Shall  thy  calm  spirit  rule  the  surging  tide, 
[Which  rolls  where  two  contending  nations  meet, 

To  still  the  passion  and  to  curb  the  pride. 
Nations  have  looked  and  seen  the  fate  of  kings* 

Protestors,  Emperors,  and  such  like  men ; 
Behold  the  man  whose  dirge  all  Europe  sings. 

Now  past  the  eulogy  of  mortal  pen ! 
He,  like  a  lighthouse  fell  athwart  the  strand ; 
Let  curses  rest  upon  the  assassin's  hand ! 

3* 


WE  TALKED  OF  LINCOLN 

Edward  William  Thomson 

We  talked  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  night, 
Ten  fur-coat  men  on  North  Saskatchewan's  plain — 
Pure  zero  cold  and  all  the  prairie  white — 
Englishman,  Scotchman,  Scandinavian,  Dane, 
Two  Irish,  four  Canadians — all  for  gain 
Of  food  and  raiment,  children,  parents,  wives, 
Living  the  hardest  life  that  man  survives, 
And  secret  proud  because  it  was  so  hard 
Exploring,  camping,  axing,  faring  lean. — 
Month  in  and  out  no  creature  had  we  seen 
Except  our  burdened  dogs,  gaunt  foxes  gray, 
Hard-feathered  grouse  that  shot  would  seldom  slay, 
Slinking  coyotes,  plumy-trailing  owls, 
Stark  Indians  warm  in  rabbit-blanket  cowls, 
And,  still  as  shadows  in  their  deep-tracked  yard, 
The  dun  vague  moose  wre  startled  from  our  way. 

We  talked  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  night 
Around  our  fire  of  tamarac  crackling  fierce. 
Yet  dim,  like  moon  and  stars,  in  that  vast  light 
Boreal,  bannery,  shifting  quick  to  pierce 
Ethereal  blanks  of  Space  with  falchion  streams 
Transfigured  wondrous  into  quivering  beams 
From  Forms  enormous — marching  through  the  sky 
To  dissolution  and  newr  majesty. 
And  speech  was  low  around  our  bivouac  fire, 
Since  in  our  inmost  heart  of  hearts  there  grew 
The  sense  of  mortal  feebleness,  to  see 
Those  silent  miracles  of  Might  on  high 
Seemingly  done  for  only  such  as  we 
In  sign  how  nearer  Death  and  Doom  we  drew, 
While  in  the  ancient  tribal-soul  we  knew 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Our  old  hardfaring  father-Vikings'  dreams 
Of  Odin  at  Valhalla's  open  door, 
Where  they  might  see  the  Battle-father's  face 
Glowing  at  last,  when  Life  and  Toil  were  o'er, 
Were  they  but  staunch-enduring  in  their  place. 

We  talked  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  night. — 

Oh,  sweet  and  strange  to  hear  the  hard-hand  men 

Old-Abeing  him,  like  half  the  world  of  yore 

In  years  when  Grant's  and  Lee's  young  soldiers  bore 

Rifle  and  steel,  and  proud  that  heroes  live 

When  folks  their  lives  to  Labor  mostly  give. 

And  strange  and  sweet  to  hear  their  voices  call 

Him  "Father  Abraham,"  though  no  man  of  all 

Was  born  within  the  Nation  of  his  birth, 

It  was  as  if  they  felt  that  all  the  Earth 

Possess  of  right  Earth's  greatest  common  man, 

Her  sanest,  wisest,  simplest,  steadiest  son, 

To  whom  The  Father's  children  all  were  one, 

And  Pomp  and  Vanities  as  motes  that  danced 

In  the  clear  sunshine  where  his  humor  glanced. 

Wre  talked  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  night 

Until  one  spoke,  "We  yet  may  see  his  face" 

Whereon  the  fire  crackled  loud  through  space 

Of  human  silence,  while  eyes  reverent 

Toward  the  auroral  miracle  were  bent 

Till  from  the  trancing  Glory  spirits  came 

Within  our  semicircle  round  the  flame, 

And  drew  us  closer-ringed,  until  we  could 

Feel  the  kind  touch  of  vital  brotherhood 

Which  Father  Abraham  Lincoln  thought  so  good. 


33 


WASHINGTON  AND  LINCOLN 

Authorship  Unknown 

One  forged  the  links  that  welded  fast 
The  nation's  fame  that  it  might  last 

Forever  and  a  day ; 
The  other  with  his  might  and  main 
Did  rivet  it  when  rent  in  twain — 

His  name  will  live  for  aye ! 

Hail,  Washington !  and  Lincoln,  hail ! 
Your  glory  shall  not  fade  nor  fail, 

The  Stars  and  Stripes  shall  wave 
Resplendent  o'er  our  crags  and  shores, 
Majestic  as  the  eagle  soars — 

Triumphant  o'er  the  grave ! 


PUNCH'S  APOLOGY 

Tom  Taylor 
(Abraham  Lincoln,  Foully  Assassinated  April,  1865) 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier, 
You,  who,  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to  trace 

Broad,  for  the  self-complacent  sneer, 

His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  furrowed  face. 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt,  bristling  hair, 
His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 

His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please. 

34 


THE   PRAISE  OF   LINCOLN 

You,  whose  smart  pen  backed  up  the  pencil's  laugh, 
Judging  each  step  as  though  the  way  were  plain ; 

Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph 
Of  chief's  perplexity,  or  people's  pain. 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  winding  sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to  rear  anew, 

Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet, 
Say,  scurril  jester,  is  there  room  for  you  ? 

Yes,  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  from  my  sneer, 
To  lame  my  pencil  and  confute  my  pen — 

To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, 
This  rail  splitter,  as  true-born  king  of  men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learned  to  rue, 
Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose, 

How  his  quaint  wit  made  home  truth  seem  more  true, 
How  iron-like,  his  temper  grew  by  blows. 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful  he  could  be; 

How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the  same  ; 
Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he, 

Thirsty  for  gold  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

He  went  about  his  work — such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head,  and  heart,  and  hand — 

As  one  who  knows,  where  there's  a  task  to  do, 

Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good  grace  com- 
mand. 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  burden  grow, 
That  God  makes  instruments  to  work  His  will, 

If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 

Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good  and  ill. 

35 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 

That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's  and  Right's, 

As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 
His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's  thwarting  mights — 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil, 

The  iron  bark  that  turns  the  lumberer's  axe, 

The  rapid,  that  o'erbears  the  boatman's  toil, 

The  prairie,  hiding  the  mazed  wanderer's  tracks, 

The  ambushed  Indian,  and  the  prowling  bear — 

Such  were  the  needs  that  helped  his  youth  to  train  ; 

Rough  culture — but  such  trees  large  fruit  may  bear, 
If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and  grain. 

So  he  grew  up  a  destined  work  to  do, 

And  lived  to  do  it ;  four  long,  suffering  years' 

111  fate,  ill  feeling,  ill  report,  lived  through, 
And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change  to  cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 

And  took  both  with  the  same  unwavering  mood ; 

Till,  as  he  came  on  light,  from  darkling  days, 

And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal  from  where  he  stood. 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  him. 

Reached  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger  pressed — 

And  those  perplexed  and  patient  eyes  were  dim, 
Those  gaunt,  long  laboring  limbs  were  laid  to  rest ! 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  pen, 

When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift  eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 


36 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

The  old  world  and  the  new,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame ! 

Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last  beat  high, 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph  came. 

A  deed  accursed !    Strokes  have  been  struck  before 
By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 

If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore ; 

But  thy  foul  crime,  like  Cain's,  stands  darkly  out. 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a  strife, 

Whate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly  striven ; 

And  with  the  martyr's  crown  crownest  a  life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  forgiven. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Mary  Livingston  Bur  dick 

Safe  in  Fame's  gallery  through  all  the  years, 
Our  dearest  picture  hangs,  your  steadfast  face, 
Whose  eyes  hold  all  the  pathos  of  the  race 

Redeemed  by  you  from  Servitude's  sad  tears. 

And  how  redeemed?  With  agony  of  grief; 

With  ceaseless  labor  in  war's  lurid  light ; 

With  such  deep  anguish  in  each  lonely  night, 
Your  soul  sweat  very  blood  ere  came  relief. 

What  crown  have  you  who  bore  that  cross  below  ? 

O  faithful  one,  what  is  your  life  above? 

Is  there  a  higher  gift  in  God's  pure  love 
Than  to  have  lived  on  earth  as  Man  of  Woe? 


37 


THE  COMING  OF  LINCOLN 

Edwin  Markham 

Men  saw  no  portents  on  that  winter  night 
A  hundred  years  ago.    No  omens  flared 
Above  that  rail-built  cabin  with  one  door, 
And  windowless  to  all  the  peering  stars. 
They  laid  him  in  the  hollow  of  a  log, 
Humblest  of  cradles,  save  that  other  one — 
The  manger  in  the  stall  at  Bethlehem. 

No  portents!  yet  with  whisper  and  alarm 
The  Evil  Powers  that  dread  the  nearing  feet 
Of  heroes  held  a  council  in  that  hour ; 
And  sent  three  fates  to  darken  that  low  door, 
To  baffle  and  beat  back  the  heaven-sent  child. 
Three  were  the  fates — gaunt  Poverty  that  chains, 
Gray  Drudgery  that  grinds  the  hope  away, 
And  gaping  Ignorance  that  starves  the  soul. 

They  came  with  secret  laughters  to  destroy. 
Ever  they  dogged  him,  counting  every  step, 
Waylaid  his  youth  and  struggled  for  his  life. 
They  came  to  master,  but  he  made  them  serve. 
And  from  the  wrestle  with  the  destinies, 
He  rose  with  all  his  energies  aglow. 

For  God,  upon  whose  steadfast  shoulders  rest 
These  governments  of  ours,  had  not  forgot. 
He  needed  for  His  purposes  a  voice, 
A  voice  to  be  a  clarion  on  the  wind, 
Crying  the  word  of  freedom  to  dead  hearts, 
The  word  the  centuries  had  waited  for. 

38 


THE   PRAISE  OF  LINCOLN 

So  hidden  in  the  West,  God  shaped  His  man. 
There  in  the  unspoiled  solitudes  he  grew, 
Unwarped  by  culture  and  uncramped  by  creed ; 
Keeping  his  course  courageous  and  alone, 
As  goes  the  Mississippi  to  the  sea. 
His  daring  spirit  burst  the  narrow  bounds, 
Rose  resolute ;  and  like  the  sea-called  stream, 
He  tore  new  channels  where  he  found  no  way. 

The  tools  were  his  first  teachers,  sternly  kind. 
The  plow,  the  scythe,  the  maul,  the  echoing  axe 
Taught  him  their  homely  wisdom  and  their  peace. 
He  had  the  plain  men's  genius — common  sense, 
Yet  rage  for  knowledge  drove  his  mind  afar; 
He  fed  his  spirit  with  the  bread  of  books, 
And  slaked  his  thirst  at  all  the  wells  of  thought. 

But  most  he  read  the  heart  of  common  man, 
Scanned  all  its  secret  pages  stained  with  tears, 
Saw  all  the  guile,  saw  all  the  piteous  pain ; 
And  yet  could  keep  the  smile  about  his  lips, 
Love  and  forgive,  see  all  and  pardon  all ; 
His  only  fault,  the  fault  that  some  of  old 
Laid  even  on  God — that  he  was  ever  wont 
To  bend  the  law  to  let  his  mercy  out. 


LINCOLN 

From  the  American  Magazine 

In  him  distilled  and  potent  the  choice  essence  of  a  race ! 
Far  back  the  Puritans — stern  and  manful  visionaries, 
Repressed  poets,  flushed  with  dreams  of  glowing  theol- 
ogies ! 
Each  new  succession,  out  of  border  hardship, 

39 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Refined  to  human  use  the  initial  rigor  of  the  breed, 
Passing  to  the  next  the  unconscious  possession  of  a 

perfecting  soul ! 
Each  forest  clearing  gave  something  of  neighborly 

grace, 
The  rude  play  of  cabin-bred  natural  people  something 

of  humor, 
Each  mountain  home  something  of  inner  daring, 
Each  long-wandering  life  something  of  patience  and 

hope! 
In  the  open,  far-seen  nature  gradually  chiseled 
The  deepening  wistful  eyes. 
Each  axman  and  each  plowman  added 
Another  filament  of  ruggedness ; 
Unknowing  minds  dumbly  cried  for  liberty ; 
Mute  hearts  strove  against  injustice.     .     .     . 
At  last  was  ready  the  alembic,  where  Nature  stored 

and  set  apart 
Each  generation's  finest  residue, 
Waiting  for  the  hour  of  perfect  mixture — 
And  then  the  Miracle ! 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Fred  Clare  Baldwin 

With  Humor's  wand  in  hands  to  hardship  used 
He  changed  the  face  of  poverty's  estate ; 
At  Wisdom's  fount  he  drank  insatiate; 

O'er  Destiny's  dark  sayings  deeply  mused : 

Of  large  ambition  let  him  be  accused ; 

Though  ne'er  will  our  full  tide  of  joy  abate 
That  in  the  mold  which  cast  a  soul  so  great 

Were  heart  and  conscience  with  ambition  fused : 

As  high  in  honor  as  in  stature  tall, 

In  vision  broader  than  the  plains  he  trod, 
40 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

As  firm  in  courage  as  the  buttressed  wall, 

This  child  of  genius  was  the  friend  of  God; 
And  unto  him  the  martyr's  task  was  given, 
To  reunite  a  realm  by  hatred  riven. 


THE  PROCLAMATION 

Charles  Godfrey  Leland 

Now  who  has  done  the  greatest  deed 

Which  History  has  ever  known? 
And  who  in  Freedom's  direst  need 

Became  her  bravest  champion  ? 
Who  a  whole  continent  set  free  ? 

Who  killed  the  curse  and  broke  the  ban 
Which  made  a  lie  of  liberty? 

You,  Father  Abraham — you're  the  man ! 

The  deed  is  done.   Millions  have  yearned 

To  see  the  spear  of  Freedom  cast. 
The  dragon  roared  and  writhed  and  burned 

You've  smote  him  full  and  square  at  last. 
O  Great  and  True !   You  do  not  know — 

You  can  not  tell — you  can  not  feel 
How  far  through  time  your  name  must  go, 
Honored  by  all  men,  high  or  low, 

Where  Freedom's  votaries  kneel 

This  wide  world  takes  in  many  a  tongue — 

This  world  boasts  many  a  noble  state ; 
In  all  your  praises  will  be  sung — 

In  all  the  great  will  call  you  great. 
Freedom !  where'er  that  word  is  known—* 

On  silent  shore,  by  sounding  sea, 
'Mid  millions,  or  in  deserts  lone — 

Your  noble  name  shall  ever  be- 

4i 


THE   PRAISE  OF  LINCOLN 

The  word  is  out,  the  deed  is  done, 

The  spear  is  cast,  dread  no  delay; 
When  such  a  steed  is  fairly  gone, 

Fate  never  fails  to  find  a  way. 
Hurrah !  hurrah !  the  track  is  clear, 

We  know  your  policy  and  plan ; 
We'll  stand  by  you  through  every  year ; 

Now,  Father  Abraham,  you're  our  man. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 
(Reunion  at  Gettysburg,  1888) 

Shade  of  our  greatest,  O  look  down  to-day ! 
Here  the  long,  dread  midsummer  battle  roared, 
And    brother    in    brother    plunged    the    accursed 

sword ; — 
Here  foe  meets  foe  once  more  in  proud  array 

Yet  not  as  once  to  harry  and  to  slay 

But  to  strike  hands,  and  with  sublime  accord 
Weep  tears  heroic  for  the  souls  that  soared 
Quick  from  earth's  carnage  to  the  starry  way. 

Each  fought  for  what  he  deemed  the  people's  good, 
And  proved  his  bravery  with  his  offered  life, 
And  sealed  his  honor  with  his  outpoured  blood ; 

But  the  Eternal  did  direct  the  strife, 

And  on  this  sacred  field  one  patriot  host 
Now  calls  thee  father, — dear,  majestic  ghost ! 


THE  FAME  OF  LINCOLN 

A.  Dallas  Williams 

Wherever  men  are  civilized  they  know 

The  name  of  him  who  gave  his  life  to  save 
Our  seething  nation  from  impending  woe, 

And  found  an  honored  but  untimely  grave. 
Where'er  the  English  tongue  is  spoken,  there 

The  name  of  Lincoln  finds  unstinted  praise — 
This  shoulder-stooped,  this  toil-worn  son  of  care, 

Who  bore  our  burdens  through  unhappy  days. 

The  name  of  Lincoln,  all  around  the  world, 

Is  on  the  lips  of  statesman,  slave,  and  king; 
Where'er  the  flag  of  Freedom  is  unfurled, 

They  know  of  Lincoln's  toil  and  suffering, 
They  know  of  Lincoln's  care  and  sacrifice, 

In  all  the  nations  underneath  the  skies ; 
Beneath  the  tropic  sun,  or  'midst  the  ice 

Of  Arctic  fields,  deserved  fame  ne'er  dies. 

Who  can  forget  the  patience,  hope,  and  love 

That  filled  his  heart  through  all  the  surging  years 
Of  civil  strife?  the  toil  and  grief  thereof, 

The  faith  that  led  him  on  through  falling  tears  ? 
Cheer  for  the  friend,  forgiveness  for  the  foe, 

With  aught  of  malice  in  his  heart  for  none ; 
And  when  at  last  the  writhing  years  of  woe 

Were  o'er,  rejoicing  that  the  strife  was  done. 

Who  can  forget  the  cruel  jeers  and  sneers 

Of  those  who  should  have  helped,  but  criticized? 

His  heart  was  filled  with  pity,  not  with  fears, 

Nor  by  their  taunts  and  threats  was  he  surprised ; 

43 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

With  courage,  calm,  unfaltering  as  dawn, 

He  stood,  while  friends  and  counsellors  reviled ; 

He  did  the  nearest  duty,  trusting  on, 

And  when  rage  changed  to  love,  he  simply  smiled. 

A  loyal  people  have  enshrined  the  great 

And  patriotic  statesman  in  their  hearts; 
Their  love  for  him  does  not,  can  not  abate ; 

In  homes  and  offices,  in  fields  and  marts, 
His  name  is  reverenced ;  both  high  and  low, 

Men,  women,  children,  join  in  the  applause; 
Yea,  countless  thousands  worthy  praise  bestow 

On  him  who  bravely  toiled  in  Freedom's  cause. 

His  fame  endures — not  like  the  fame  of  some, 

Whose  names  on  every  tongue  applause  invite, 
And  then  the  people  suddenly  are  dumb; 

Like  Jonah's  gourd,  which  perished  in  a  night, 
Their  fame  is  dead,  and  they  are  left  in  woe — 

The  years  but  add  fresh  laurels  to  his  name, 
And  like  the  mighty  oaks  which  stately  grow. 

So  grows  this  patient  man's  undying  fame. 


LINCOLN 

Richard  Wightman 

(1861-1865) 

And  he  was  once  a  babe,  little  and  like  any  other, 
Wan,  slow-eyed,  knowing  not  his  mother,  knowing 

only  her  breasts, 
Sleeping  in  the  day,  showing  no  hint  of  stature  or  of 

power ! 
What  recked  he  that  the  walls  about  were  less  than 

palace  walls, 

44 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Or  that  the  snow,  sifting  upon  him  through  the  log- 
crevices, 

Was  not  the  dust  of  warm  and  gentle  stars? 

Rude-handed  they  who  tended  him — rough  miners 
with  a  Kohinoor — 

And  yet  were  they  the  tools  of  God  to  help  that  babe 
to  be! 

Then  sun  succeeded  sun,  and  to  the  wid'ning  eyes  of 

Youth 
Far  heights  on  heights  stood  clear, 
Topped  by  a  nameless  glory  to  be  won 
By  life  and  love  and  tireless  trust  in  Right, 
And  patient  toil  and  fearless  grapple  with  the  Wrong. 
Twas  but  the  vision  of  a  dreamful  boy, 
But  in  it  surely  lay  the  unity  of  States, 
The  lengthened  gleam  of  all  the  Flag's  fair  stars, 
And  justice  done  to  men — some  white,  some  black, 
The  owners  and  the  owned, 
But  bondaged  all  until  the  great  Decree ! 

And  oh,  the  soul  of  him 

So  stalwartly  embarred  within  its  clay, 

Yet  roaming  far,  halting  not  upon  the  shores  of  his 

America, 
Crossing  seas  and  deserts  to  set  up  its  claim 
Of  universal  kinship! 
We  say  we  are  his  people — proudly  we  say  it  and  with 

reverence — 
But  in  his  heart  he  kept  all  men  and  fathered  them  with 

tenderness. 
Almost  it  seemed  as  if  from  out  his  loins — 
This  great  parental  man — the  race  had  sprung ! 
He  knew  no  couch  of  down,  no  viands  rare,  no  easy 

leveled  way. 

45 


THE  PRAISE  OF  LINCOLN 

Lonely  he  fought  his  fight,  and  gained  the  meed  of 
Wisdom, 

Insignia  of  Poise,  and  Love's  gemmed  chaplet,  fade- 
less through  the  years. 

We  say  that  he  was  born,  and  date  his  death,  ■ 

But  while  the  light  seeks  out  the  vales,  and  darkness 
holds  them  close 

This  man  shall  be ! 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Eugene  J.  Hall 

O  honored  name,  revered  and  undecaying, 
Engraven  on  each  heart,  O  soul  sublime! 

That,  like  a  planet  through  the  heavens  straying, 
Outlives  the  wreck  of  time! 

O  rough,  strong  soul,  your  noble  self-possession 
Is  un forgotten.    Still  your  work  remains. 

You  freed  from  bondage  and  from  vile  oppression 
A  race  in  clanking  chains. 

O  furrowed  face,  beloved  by  all  the  nation! 

O  tall,  gaunt  form,  to  memory  fondly  dear ! 
O  firm,  bold  hand,  our  strength  and  our  salvation ! 

O  heart  that  knew  no  fear! 

Lincoln,  your  manhood  shall  survive  for  ever, 
Shedding  a  fadeless  halo  'round  your  name; 

Urging  men  on,  with  wise  and  strong  endeavor 
To  bright  and  honest  fame ! 

Through  years  of  care,  to  rest  and  joy  a  stranger, 
You  saw  complete  the  work  you  had  begun ; 

Thoughtless  of  threats,  nor  heeding  death  or  danger. 
You  toiled  till  all  was  done. 

4<5 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

You  freed  the  bondman  from  his  iron  master, 
You  broke  the  strong  and  cruel  chains  he  wore; 

You  saved  the  ship  of  state  from  foul  disaster, 
And  brought  her  safe  to  shore. 

You  fell !    An  anxious  nation's  hopes  seemed  blighted, 
While  millions  shuddered  at  your  dreadful  fall ; 

But  God  is  good !    His  wondrous  hand  has  righted 
And  reunited  all. 

You  fell,  but  in  your  death  you  were  victorious ; 

To  molder  in  the  tomb  your  form  has  gone, 
While  through  the  world  your  great  soul  grows  more 
glorious 

As  years  go  gliding  on. 

All  hail,  great  chieftain !    Long  will  sweetly  cluster 
A  thousand  memories  'round  your  sacred  name, 

Nor  time  nor  death  shall  dim  the  spotless  luster 
That  shines  upon  your  fame. 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  LINCOLN 

John  Vance  Cheney 

I  read  once  more  this  care-worn,  patient  face, 
And  learn  anew  that  sorrow  is  the  dower 

Of  him  that  sinks  himself  to  lift  his  race 
Into  the  seat  of  peace  and  power. 

How  beautiful  the  homely  features  grow, 

How  soft  the  light  from  out  the  mild,  sad  eyes, 

The  gleam  from  deeps  of  grief  the  soul  must  know, 
To  be  so  great, — so  kind,  so  wise ! 

47 


LINCOLN  AT  GETTYSBURG 

Mary  M.  Adams 

A  nation's  voice,  a  nation's  praise, 

Above  its  honored  dead ! 
The  spot  where  on  eventful  days 

Its  heroes  fought  and  bled ! 
The  spot  where  Freedom's  spirit  spoke 

In  words  sublime  and  true, 
And  where  her  trumpet  tone  awoke 

The  old  song  and  the  new ! 

The  old  song  with  the  newer  strain, 

To  make  the  first  complete 
With  melody  that  lives  again 

Through  victory  and  defeat ! 
O  sacred  spot !  thrice  sacred  now, 

As  years  thy  record  prove ! 
Before  thy  shrine  all  patriots  bow, 

These  shrines  all  doubts  remove! 

The  patriot's  heart  with  ardor  glows, 

Remembering  proffered  lives ; 
He  hears,  in  one  strong  breeze  that  blows, 

"Life  goes,  but  love  survives" — 
The  love  that  stirs  a  nation's  heart, 

And  bears  a  nation's  fame 
iWherever  brave  deeds  have  a  part, 

And  men  such  deeds  proclaim. 

He  knows  its  thrilling  music  tells 

Of  those  who  fell  asleep, 
And  here  found  tomb,  while  muffled  bells 

A  nation's  birthday  keep. 

48 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

He  hears  as  well  the  tender  moan 

That  in  its  cadence  sings 
For  those  who  sit  henceforth  alone, 

Whose  muffled  bell  still  rings. 

He  hears  the  added  strain  it  bears 

For  all  who  bravely  fought, 
For  him  who  in  the  silence  wears 

The  scars  the  battle  brought — 
Who  wears  them  with  a  hero's  might, 

And  honors  still  the  hour 
That  won  a  nation's  priceless  right, 

And  proved  a  nation's  dower! 

He  hears  it  when  it  brings  the  name 

That  won  a  martyr's  crown. 
Our  glorious  chief,  whose  stainless  fame 

His  country's  best  renown ! 
It  brings  the  matchless  words  he  said, 

Standing  above  their  sod, 
In  hour  whose  burning  import  led 

A  people  nearer  God. 

It  is  not  ours  to  dedicate 

This  piece  of  earth  so  dear, 
Nor  is  it  ours  to  consecrate 

The  deeds  men  witnessed  here ; 
That  has  been  done  by  those  who  died, 

On  nation's  altar  slain ; 
They  have  these  hillsides  sanctified ; 

Oh,  prove  it  not  in  vain ! 

Great  leader  true !  throughout  all  time 
The  world  will  hear  thy  voice ; 

Because  of  thee  a  holier  clime 
Bids  liberty  rejoice ! 

49 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

'Twas  fitting  yon  should  tell  of  those 
Who  wrote  in  blood  their  song, 

And  here  thy  nobler  thought  disclose 
How  nations  shall  be  strong! 

How  brave  men  shall  perpetuate 

The  freedom  bravely  won, 
Forbid  that  treason  desecrate 

What  loyal  sires  begun ; 
And  here  on  this  great  field  to-day, 

In  memory  of  thy  birth, 
Let  nation's  love  its  tribute  pay, 

And  echo  round  the  earth ! 

But  let  our  labor  reach  the  height 

The  larger  manhood  saw ; 
That  broad  humanity  whose  light 

Was  Thy  diviner  law  ; 
That  law  whose  good  is  absolute, 

Whose  mandate  strong  and  pure, 
From  every  ill  can  good  transmute, 

And  make  its  change  secure. 

If  thus  we  find  our  gifts  in  thee, 

Its  vaster  strength  will  live 
To  prove  its  own  integrity 

In  what  we  aim  to  give ; 
In  sense  of  duty  nobly  met, 

In  nature  nobly  plain, 
In  love  of  men  sublimely  set 

In  diadems  of  pain. 

In  statesmen  of  heroic  mold, 
His  country's  great  high  priest, 

Whose  human  heart  could  still  enfold 
All  things  the  great,  the  least  ; 

SO 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Who  proved  to  earth  that  simple  trust 
Is  more  than  Norman  blood ; 

That  he  is  crowned  who  can  be  just, 
The  great  must  first  be  good ! 

To  love  is  ever  to  ascend ; 

Oh,  let  our  love,  like  thine, 
The  nation's  highest  good  attend, 

And  with  thy  spirit  shine ! 
Thus  shall  our  tribute  catch  from  thee 

Its  worthiest,  noblest,  best, 
And  one  united  country  see, 

Thy  life's  divine  bequest! 

O  Gettysburg !    Thy  living  dead 

Speak  still  across  the  years, 
And  by  thy  voice  our  hearts  are  led 

Above  all  passing  fears ! 
But  keep,  O  hills !  one  record  true, 

And  one  great  captain's  name ! 
Oh,  then  shall  all  men  look  to  you 

For  nation's  deathless  fame ! 


GETTYSBURG  ODE 

Bayard  Taylor 

(Dedication  of  the  National  Monument) 

After  the  eyes  that  looked,  the  lips  that  spake 
Here,  from  the  shadows  of  impending  death, 

Those  words  of  solemn  breath, 

What  voice  may  fitly  break 
The  silence  doubly  hallowed,  left  by  him? 
We  can  but  bow  the  head,  with  eyes  grown  dim, 

And,  as  a  Nation's  litany,  repeat 

51 


THE    PRAISE   OE   LINCOLN 

The  phrase  his  martyrdom  hath  made  complete, 
Noble  as  then,  but  now  more  sadly  sweet : 
"Let  us,  the  Living,  rather  dedicate 
Ourselves  to  the  unfinished  work,  which  they 
Thus  far  advanced  so  nobly  on  its  way, 

And  save  the  periled  State ! 
Let  us,  upon  this  field  where  they,  the  brave, 
Their  last  full  measure  of  devotion  gave, 
Highly  resolve  they  have  not  died  in  vain ! — 
That,  under  God,  the  Nation's  later  birth 

Of  Freedom,  and  the  people's  gain 
Of  their  own  Sovereignty,  shall  never  wane 
And  perish  from  the  circle  of  the  earth !" 
From  such  a  perfect  text,  shall  Song  aspire 

To  light  her  faded  fire, 
And  into  wandering  music  turn 
Its  virtue,  simple,  sorrowful,  and  stern? 
His  voice  all  elegies  anticipated ; 

For,  whatsoe'er  the  strain, 

We  hear  that  one  refrain : 
"We  consecrate  ourselves  to  them,  the  Consecrated !" 


THE  LINCOLN  BOULDER 

Louis  Bradford  Couch 
(Nyack,  New  York) 

O  Mighty  Boulder,  wrought  by  God's  own  hand, 
Throughout  all  future  ages  thou  shalt  stand 
A  monument  of  honor  to  the  brave 
Who  yielded  up  their  lives,  their  all,  to  save 
Our  glorious  country,  and  to  make  it  free 
From  bondsmen's  tears  and  lash  of  slavery. 

52 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Securely  welded  to  thy  rugged  breast, 
Through  all  the  coming  ages  there  shall  rest 
Our  Lincoln's  tribute  to  a  patriot  band, 
The  noblest  ever  penned  by  human  hand. 

The  storms  of  centuries  may  lash  and  beat 
Thy  granite  face  and  bronze  with  hail  and  sleet ; 
But  futile  all  their  fury.    In  a  day 
The  loyal  sun  shall  melt  them  all  away. 

Equal  in  death  our  gallant  heroes  sleep 

In  Southern  trench,  home  grave,  or  ocean  deep ; 

Equal  in  glory,  fadeless  as  the  light 

The  stars  send  down  upon  them  through  the  night. 

O  priceless  heritage  for  us  to  keep 

Our  heroes'  fame  immortal  while  they  sleep ! 

O  God,  still  guide  us  with  thy  loving  hand, 
Keep  and  protect  our  glorious  Fatherland. 

THE  CABIN  WHERE  LINCOLN  WAS 
BORN 

Robert  Morris 

Only  a  cabin,  old  and  poor, 

Logs  and  daubing  and  creaking  door; 

A  solemn  sentinel  pointing  back 

Over  a  century's  beaten  track, 

To  a  soul  that  surmounted  poverty's  hill, 

And  cried  back  to  the  world,  "You  can  if  you  will." 

From  his  lofty  height  of  power  and  fame, 
Where  honor  crowned  his  humble  name, 
He  looked  to  the  cabin  that  gave  him  birth, 
As  the  dearest  spot  of  all  the  earth. 
Though  born  in  a  cabin,  you  still  will  be  lucky 
If  your  life  is  like  Lincoln  of  old  Kentucky. 

53 


THE  MOTHER  OF  LINCOLN 

Benjamin  Davenport  House 

Out  on  the  lie  of  "lowly  born!" 

For  life  has  never  changed  its  source 
Since  first  began  its  earthly  course, 

Nor  from  its  giver  came  with  scorn. 

And  they  who  put  in  blood  their  trust, 
Their  pride  in  silk  and  linen  rolled — 
Who  band  their  narrow  brows  with  gold, 

Poor  fools,  they  are  but  common  dust. 

For  flesh  is  but  a  robe  that  clings 
About  and  clothes  the  principle 
Of  lives  which  in  its  swathing  dwell, 

And  only  souls  are  ever  kings. 

Ah !  mother  of  as  grand  a  son 
As  ever  battled  in  the  van 
To  prove  the  brotherhood  of  man, 

Such  lives  as  thine  are  never  done. 

Though  common  ways  were  ways  of  thine, 
And  all  thy  walks  uncarpeted, 
Thou  gav'st  to  earth  a  life  which  led 

A  race  enchained  to  Freedom's  shrine. 

From  out  thy  hillside  hovel  came 

An  infant's  wail,  which  proved  the  key 
Of  songs  of  freedom  yet  to  be 

To  drown  the  groans — a  nation's  shame. 

Who  gives  an  imbecile  to  reign, 
The  worn-out  stock  of  royal  line — 
Backed  by  the  lie  of  "right  divine" — 

Is  less  than  handmaid  in  thy  train. 

54 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

We  can  but  wonder,  we  who  read 

The  past  with  backward,  searching  look, 
Its  pages  open  as  a  book, 

If  thou  foresaw  where  he  would  lead. 

If,  gazing  in  the  embers'  glow, 
Thine  eyes  by  dreaming  fancy  held, 
Thou  saw'st  the  flames  that  would  unweld 

The  chains  and  let  the  bondsman  go  ? 

When  baby  fingers  touched  thy  breast, 

If  ever  in  thy  musing  then 

Thou  dream'dst  that  hand  should  guide  the  pen 
Whose  stroke  would  free  a  race  oppressed  ? 

Didst  hear,  O  mother!  when  blew  free 

The  winds  which  through  the  crannies  sighed, 
The  sounds  of  voices  as  they  cried, 

Because  the  light  they  could  not  see  ? 

Or  when  the  north  wind's  trumpets  blew 
Heardst  thou  in  them  wild  war's  alarms? 
The  cannon's  roar,  or  clash  of  arms 

Where  shot-torn  battle  banners  flew  ? 

Thou  wert  unstoried  and  unsung, 

O  mother  of  our  mighty  dead ! 

Of  whom  thy  life  was  fountain  head, 
Yet  History's  harp  for  thee  is  strung. 

For,  from  the  iron  of  thy  blood 
Was  forged  the  nation-needed  life 
Which,  when  the  land  was  torn  with  strife, 

Stood  Freedom's  pharos  'midst  the  flood. 

55 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

We  can  not  know,  thou  lost  to  earth, 
That  ever  came  a  dream  to  thee 
Of  what  the  nation's  fate  should  be, 

Led  by  the  life  thou  gavest  birth ; 

But  trust  looks  forward  with  belief 

That  thou  hast  fullest  knowledge  gained, 
Through  larger  life  thou  hast  attained, 

And  hold  it  as  a  garnered  sheaf. 

That  thou  hast  pierced  life  curtain's  mesh 
With  all  the  soul  of  sense  and  sound, 
Unhampered  by  the  narrow  bound, 

Of  sight  and  sound  of  sense  of  flesh. 

Hast  heard  the  battle  sink  to  rest, 
Succeeded  by  the  thunder  roll 
Of  welcome  to  the  mighty  soul 

Whose  life  was  nurtured  at  thy  breast. 


THE  HOUSE  WHERE  LINCOLN 
DIED 

Robert  Mackay 

Above  Judea's  purple-mantled  plain, 

There  hovers  still,  among  the  ruins  lone, 
The  spirit  of  the  Christ  whose  dying  moan 

Was  heard  in  heaven,  and  paid  our  debt  in  pain. 

As  subtle  perfume  lingers  with  the  rose, 
Even  when  its  petals  flutter  to  the  earth, 
So  clings  the  potent  mystery  of  the  birth 

Of  that  deep  love  from  which  all  mercy  flows. 


56 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Within  this  house,  this  room, — a  martyr  died, 

A  prophet  of  a  larger  liberty, — 

A  liberator  setting  bondmen  free, 
A  full-orbed  man,  above  mere  mortal  pride. 

The  cloud-rifts  opening  to  celestial  glades 
Oft  glimpse  him,  and  his  spirit  lingers  still, 
As  Christ's  sweet  influence  breathes  upon  the  hill 

Where  the  red  lily  with  the  sunset  fades. 

A  little  girl,  with  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 

Sings  through  the  old  place,  ignorant  of  all; 
Her  angel  face,  her  cheerful,  birdlike  call 

Thrilling  the  heart  to  life  more  full,  more  true. 


THE  NEGLECTED  GRAVE  OF 
LINCOLN'S  MOTHER 

James  Cor  bin 

A  wooded  hill — a  low-sunk  grave 

Upon  the  hilltop  hoary ; 
The  oak  tree's  branches  o'er  it  wave ; 
Devoid  of  slab — no  record  save 

Tradition's  story. 

And  who  the  humble  dead,  that  here 

So  lonely  sleeps? 
And  who,  as  year  rolls  after  year, 
In  summer  green  or  autumn  sere — 

Comes  here  and  weeps  ? 

So  lone  and  drear — the  forest  wild 

Unbroken  seems — 
We  well  might  think  some  forest  child, 
Grown  tired  of  hunt  or  war  trail  wild, 

Here  lies  and  dreams. 

57 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

But  no ;  no  red  man  of  the  West 

Inhabits  here; 
These  clods  so  oft  by  wild  beast  pressed, 
Now  lie  upon  the  breast 

Of  one  more  dear. 

For  Lincoln's  mother  here  is  laid — 

Far  from  her  son. 
No  long  procession,  false  parade 
Of  pride  or  place  was  here  displayed — 

No  requiem  sung. 

No  summer  friends  were  crowded  round 

Her  humble  grave. 
The  summer  breezes  bore  no  sound, 
Save  genuine  grief,  when  this  lone  mound 

Its  echoes  gave. 

Her  husband  and  her  children  dear, 

And  neighbors  rude, 
Dressed  in  their  hardy  homespun  gear, 
iYVere  all  that  gathered  round  her  bier, 

In  this  lone  wood. 

High  pile  the  marble  above  the  breast 

Of  chieftain  slain ; 
While  in  the  wildwood  of  the  West, 
In  tomb  by  naught  but  nature  dressed, 

His  mother's  lain. 

Her  grave,  from  art  or  homage  free, 

Neglected  lies ; 
And  pomp  and  pride  and  vanity, 
From  this  lone  grave  must  ever  flee, 

As  mockeries. 

58 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

A  nation's  grief  and  gratitude 

Bedewed  his  bier; 
For  her  who  sleeps  in  solitude, 
In  this  lone  grave  in  Western  wood, 

Have  ye  no  tear? 

And  shall  the  mother  of  the  brave, 

And  true  and  good, 
Lie  thus  neglected  in  a  grave 
Unfit  for  menial,  clown  or  knave 

In  this  drear  wood  ? 

Oh,  nation  of  the  generous  free, 

Be  this  your  shame ; 
And  let  this  grave  beneath  the  tree, 
No  longer  thus  neglected  be, 

Without  a  name. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

/.  T.  Goodman 

A  Nation  lay  at  rest.    The  mighty  storm 
That  threatened  their  good  ship  with  direful  harm, 
Had  spent  its  fury ;  and  the  tired  and  worn 
Sank  in  sweet  slumber,  as  the  Springtime  morn 
Dawned  with  a  promise  that  the  strife  should  cease; 
And  war's  grim  face  smiled  in  a  dream  of  peace. 
Oh !  doubly  sweet  the  sleep  when  tranquil  light 
Breaks  on  the  dangers  of  the  fearful  night, 
And,  full  of  trust,  we  seek  the  dreamy  realm 
Conscious  a  faithful  pilot  holds  the  helm. 
Whose  steady  purpose  and  untiring  hand, 
With  God's  good  grace,  will  bring  us  safe  to  land. 

59 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  so  the  Nation  rested,  worn  and  weak 
From  long  exertion — 
God !  What  a  shriek 

iWas  that  which  pierced  to  farthest  earth  and  sky, 
As  though  all  Nature  uttered  a  death  cry ! 
Awake !    Arouse !  ye  sleeping  warders,  ho ! 
Be  sure  this  augurs  some  colossal  woe; 
Some  dire  calamity  hath  passed  o'erhead — 
A  world  is  shattered  or  a  god  is  dead ! 

What !  the  globe  unchanged !    The  sky  still  flecked 
With  stars  ?  Time  is  ?  The  universe  not  wrecked  ? 
Then  look  ye  to  the  pillars  of  the  State ! 
How  fares  it  with  the  Nation's  good  and  great? 
Since  that  wild  shriek  told  no  unnatural  birth 
Some  mighty  Soul  has  shaken  hands  with  earth. 

Lo !  murder  hath  been  done.    Its  purpose  foul 
Hath  stained  the  marble  of  the  Capitol 
Where  sat  one  yesterday  without  a  peer ! 
Still  rests  he  peerless — but  upon  his  bier. 
Ah,  faithful  heart,  so  silent  now — alack ! 
And  did  the  Nation  fondly  call  thee  back, 
And  hail  thee  truest,  bravest  of  the  land, 
To  bare  the  breast  to  the  assassin's  hand  ? 

And  yet  we  know  if  that  extinguished  voice 
Could  be  rekindled  and  pronounce  its  choice 
Between  this  awful  fate  of  thine,  and  one — 
Retreat  from  what  thou  didst  or  wouldst  have  done, 
In  thine  own  sense  of  duty,  it  would  choose 
This  doom — the  least  a  noble  soul  could  lose. 

There  is  a  time  when  the  assassin's  knife 
Kills  not,  but  stabs  into  eternal  life; 
And  this  was  such  an  one.    Thy  homely  name 
Was  wed  to  that  of  Freedom,  and  thy  fame 

60 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

Hung  rich  and  clustering  in  its  lusty  prime ; 
The  god  of  Heroes  saw  the  harvest  time, 
And  smote  the  noble  structure  at  the  root, 
That  it  might  bear  no  less  immortal  fruit. 

Sleep !  honored  by  the  Nation  and  mankind ! 
Thy  name  in  History's  brightest  page  is  shrined, 
Adorned  by  virtues  only,  and  shall  exist 
Bright  and  adored  on  Freedom's  martyr  list. 

The  time  shall  come  when  on  the  Alps  shall  dwell 
No  memory  of  their  own  immortal  Tell ; 
Rome  shall  forget  her  Caesars,  and  decay 
Waste  the  Eternal  City's  self  away ; 
And  in  the  lapse  of  countless  ages,  Fame 
Shall  one  by  one  forget  each  cherished  name ; 
But  thine  shall  live  through  time,  until  there  be 
No  soul  on  earth  but  glories  to  be  free. 


THE  MARTYR 

Christopher  Pearce  Cranch 

No,  not  in  vain  he  died,  not  all  in  vain, — 
Our  good,  great  President.    This  people's  hands 
Are  linked  together  in  one  mighty  chain, 
Knit  tighter  now  in  triple  woven  bands, 
To  crush  the  fiends  in  human  mask,  whose  might 
We  suffer,  oh,  too  long !    The  devils  we  must  fight 
With  fire.    God  wills  it  in  this  deed.    This  use 
We  draw  from  the  most  impious  murder  done 
Since  Calvary.    Rise,  then,  O  countrymen! 
Scatter  the  marsh-light  hopes  of  Union  won 
Through  pardoning  clemency.    Strike,  strike  again ! 
Draw  closer  round  the  foe  a  girdling  flame ! 
We  are  stabbed  whene'er  we  spare.     Strike,  in  God's 
name! 

61 


LINCOLN 

Benjamin  S.  Parker 
(February  12th,  1809— February  12th,  1909) 

Lean  child  of  the  rugged  hills, 

Warmed  by  the  auroral  flame; 
Thine  is  a  hist'ry  that  fills 

And  thrills  the  loud  trump  of  fame! 
Swart  wielder  of  axe  and  maul, 

Companion  of  toil  and  care ; 
Oh,  never  at  duty's  call 

Was  a  heart  more  brave  to  bear — 
More  tender  to  pain,  more  sure 

To  hold  to  the  deathless  right 
And  calumny's  shafts  endure 

For  sake  of  the  hoped-for  light, 
Than  thine,  O  prophet-soul,  that  held  in  fee 
The  truth  that  is,  the  greater  truth  to  be. 

By  the  cabin's  hearth  of  clay, 

Bent  over  the  sentient  page, 
By  the  wood-fire's  fitful  ray, 

From  the  hero  and  the  sage, 
Safe  into  thy  inmost  thought 

Absorbing  the  things  most  wise 
By  Grecian  and  Roman  taught, 

Men  see  thee,  in  humble  guise, — » 
A  boy  with  the  morning  glow 

Of  genius  on  thy  face, — 
A  light  for  the  world  to  know 

Through  time's  far-reaching  space — 
A  light,  a  torch,  a  flame  of  living  fire 
To  lead  the  way  wherever  souls  aspire. 

62 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Once  scoff  of  the  worldly  wise 

Who  sneered  at  thy  honest  fame, 
And  with  anger-flashing  eyes 

Announced  it  the  country's  shame 
That  the  people  thronged  to  see 

As  their  chosen  leader,  friend, 
Whose  vision  was  clear  to  see, 

And  who  would  not  break  nor  bend, 
Though  the  nation's  weight  of  sin 

Should  upon  thy  shoulders  fall 
Through  the  gathering  wrath  and  din 

Of  Bellona's  carnival. 
When  mummers  and  maskers  should  rend  the  flag, 
And  tread  it  in  dust,  a  dishonored  rag. 

Then,  with  thy  hand  on  the  wheel, 

And  the  world's  hope  in  thy  hand, 
With  sensitive  nerves  to  feel 

Each  throb  of  pain  in  the  land, 
Quick  to  the  sorrowing's  cry, 

Yet  firm  as  the  basic  rock 
To  the  war  waves  roaring  by 

And  the  battle's  awful  shock; 
What  a  strong  god's  task  was  thine, 

With  brother  at  brother's  throat, 
To  keep  through  the  strength  divine, 

The  brave  ship  of  state  afloat 
On  the  sea  of  nations,  where  she  alone 
Carried  Freedom's  flag  to  the  breezes  thrown. 

The  flag  of  liberty,  stained 

By  blood  of  the  driven  thrall 
That  on  every  new  star  gained 

Let  its  festering  shadow  fall, 


63 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

As  a  cloud  that  dripped  down  gore, 

Polluting  the  land  and  sea 
And  presaging  evermore 

The  vict'ry  of  savagery ; 
Should  the  freeman  hunt  the  slave, 

As  the  serf  of  remorseless  ill, 
Or  the  nation  find  its  grave 

Through  the  loss  of  its  manly  will? 
Right  won  the  forum,  but  passion  brought 
The  crush  of  battle  from  the  clash  of  thought. 

And  the  wild  war  thundered  on 

And  the  Union's  hope  seemed  vain, 
Till  thy  hand  was  laid  upon 

The  source  of  that  fetid  stain : 
The  strokes  of  thy  prophet  pen 

That  made  the  millions  free 
And  cleansed  "Old  Glory"  then, 

For  the  millions  yet  to  be, 
All  glowing  with  fadeless  light 

Deep  into  the  darkness  hurled 
To  banish  the  reign  of  night 

From  the  empire  of  the  world, 
Appealed  to  the  nobler  soul  of  the  race, 
And  the  army  moved  with  a  conqu'ror's  pace. 

In  sorrow  and  not  in  wrath 

Did  thine  eyes  survey  the  woe — 
War's  horrors  and  aftermath. 

In  anguish  of  friend  and  foe — 
For  thou  hadst  the  Master's  art 

To  bring  to  the  fainting  cheer, 
To  solace  the  breaking  heart, 

Or  quiet  the  captive's  fear, 


64 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

To  free  the  fond  mother's  boy 

From  a  death  of  ignoble  pain; 
Turn  bitterness  into  joy 

And  defeat  into  future  gain, 
And  thy  opportune  humor's  gentle  play 
Was  sunshine  and  cheer  for  the  darkest  day. 

And  then,  with  the  end  in  sight — 

With  the  dawn's  white  glow  of  peace 
Enlarging  to  fuller  light 

With  promise  of  swift  increase, 
As  the  war  clouds  rolled  apart — 

Thy  thoughts  with  forgiveness  filled 
And  thy  sympathetic  heart 

By  the  fatal  shot  were  stilled, 
The  people  bowed  down  in  tears 

And  the  night  consumed  the  day, 
But  yet  through  the  testing  years 

Man  yields  to  thy  spirit's  sway : 
Death  claimed  thee  ere  all  thy  work  was  done, 
But  thy  star  was  risen,  thy  glory  won. 

O  Martyr !  yet  more  than  King, 

Forgive  us  our  feeble  words 
And  the  fading  wreaths  we  bring, 

When  voices  of  free,  wild  birds, 
The  breeze  and  the  prairie  flowers, 

Bear  thee,  in  thy  western  tomb, 
Love's  tributes  exceeding  ours, — 

Perennials  of  song  and  bloom : 
Forgive  us  if  we  forget, 

When  our  brooding  ills  provoke, 
The  pattern  thy  patience  set, 

Or  shackles  thy  brave  hands  broke, 
But  forgive  us  not  if  our  haughty  pride 
Has  the  righteous  plea  of  the  weak  denied. 

65 


THE   PRAISE   OF  LINCOLN 

God  keepeth  His  universe 

And  brings  the  man  and  the  hour 
To  strangle  each  haunting  curse 

And  banish  its  evil  power, 
And  each  new  crisis  finds 

Its  hero  of  lofty  soul 
With  the  strength  of  myriad  minds 

To  lead,  to  redeem,  console ; 
But,  bearers  of  hope  and  light, 

No  two  are  alike,  nor  cast, 
From  shadows  of  ancient  might, 

In  molds  of  an  outgrown  past : 
Fame  knows  but  one  Lincoln — He  stands  alone- 
The  boy  from  the  cabin,  our  loved,  our  own. 


LINCOLN 

Wilbur  D.  Nesbit 

We  mark  the  lowly  place  where  he  was  born, 

We  try  to  dream  the  dreams  that  starred  his  nights 
When  the  rude  path  that  ran  beside  the  corn 

Grew  to  a  fair  broad  way  that  found  the  heights ; 
We  try  to  sense  the  lonely  days  he  knew, 

The  silences  that  wrapped  about  his  soul 
When  there  came  whispers  tremulous  and  true 

Which  urged  him  up  and  onward  to  his  goal. 

His  was  the  dream-filled  world  of  kindly  trees; 

And  marvel-reaches  of  the  prairie  lands ; 
The  brotherhood  of  fields,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

Which  magnifies  the  soul  that  understands; 
His  was  the  school  of  unremitting  toil 

Whose  lessons  leave  an  impress  strong  and  deep ; 
His  were  the  thoughts  of  one  close  to  the  soil, 

The  knowledge  of  the  ones  who  sow  and  reap. 

66 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  of  all  this,  and  from  all  this,  he  rose 

Full  panoplied,  when  came  his  country's  call, 
Strong-hearted,  and  strong-framed  to  bear  the  woes 

Which  fell  on  him  the  bitterest  of  all. 
And  well  he  wrought,  and  wisely  well  he  knew 

The  strain  and  stress  that  should  be  his  alone ; 
He  did  the  task  long  set  for  him  to  do — 

This  man  who  came  unfavored  and  unknown. 

We  look  to-day,  not  through  Grief's  mist  of  tears, 

Not  through  glamour  of  nearness  to  the  great, 
But  down  the  long,  long  corridor  of  years 

Where  stand  the  sentinels  of  Fame  and  Fate, 
And  now  we  see  him,  whom  men  called  uncouth, 

Grown  wondrous  fair  beneath  the  hand  of  Time, 
And  know  the  love  of  liberty  and  truth 

Brings  immortality,  and  makes  sublime. 

But,  oh,  this  rugged  face  with  kindly  eyes 

Wherein  a  haunting  sorrow  ever  stays ! 
Somehow  it  seems  that  through  the  sorrow  rise 

The  echoed  visions  of  his  other  days, 
That  still  we  may  in  subtle  fancy  trace 

The  light  that  led  him  with  prophetic  gleams — 
That  here  we  gaze  upon  the  pictured  face 

Of  one  who  was  a  boy  that  lived  his  dreams. 


LINCOLN 

John  E.  Barrett 

Fame's  trumpet  blows  a  silver  note 
Across  the  ebbing  sea  of  time, 

And  angels  on  the  farther  shore 
111  rapture  chant  its  song  sublime. 

67 


THE    PRAISE   OF    LINCOLN 

It  sings  of  peace,  of  broken  chains, 
Of  cruel  wrong  at  last  made  right; 

Of  franchisee!  millions  lifted  up 

From  thraldom  into  freedom's  light. 

It  tells  of  manhood's  grandest  act — 

The  liberation  of  a  race 
From  centuried  oppression's  grasp 

And  grinding  greed  to  power  and  place, 

It  links  the  freedom  of  the  slave, 
Upon  whose  neck  a  nation's  shame 

Was  laid  through  years  of  tyranny, 
With  Lincoln's  everlasting  name. 


TO  A  PORTRAIT  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

Edith  Colby  Baniield 

Thy  rugged  features  more  heroic  are 

Than  chiselled  outlines  of  some  godlike  Greek; 
Thy  steadfast  lips  more  eloquent  did  speak 

Than  lips  of  orators  renowned  afar; 

While  gentle  wit  and  tolerance  of  folly, 
And  human  sympathies  and  love  of  right 
Shone  never  with  more  kind  and  steady  light 

Than  from  the  cavern  of  thy  melancholy. 

O  prophet  sorrowful,  did  thy  deep  eyes 

Foresee  and  weep  thy  country's  agonies  ? 
And  did  thy  lonely  heart  foreread  thy  doom 
To  give  thy  brow  such  majesty  of  gloom? 

Ah,  hadst  thou  seen  the  end,  thou  still  hadst  led 

Thy  people  with  the  same  unswerving  tread ! 
68 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Alice  Cory 
(Foully  Assassinated,  April,  1865.    Inscribed  to  Punch) 

No  glittering  chaplet  brought  from  other  lands! 

As  in  his  life,  this  man,  in  death,  is  ours; 
His  own  loved  prairies  o'er  his  "gaunt  gnarled  hands" 

Have  fitly  drawn  their  sheet  of  summer  flowers. 

What  need  hath  he  now  of  a  tardy  crown, 

His  name  from  mocking  sneer  and  jest  to  save? 

When  every  plowman  turns  his  furrow  down 
As  soft  as  though  it  fell  upon  his  grave. 

He  was  a  man  whose  like  the  world  again 
Shall  never  see,  to  vex  with  blame  or  praise : 

The  landmarks  that  attest  his  bright,  brief  reign 
Are  battles,  not  the  pomps  of  gala-days! 

The  grandest  leader  of  the  grandest  war 
That  ever  time  in  history  gave  a  place ; 

What  were  the  tinsel  flattery  of  a  star 

To  such  a  breast !  or  what  a  ribbon's  grace ! 

'Tis  to  the  man,  and  the  man's  honest  worth, 
The  nation's  loyalty  in  tears  upsprings ; 

Through  him  the  soil  of  labor  shines  henceforth 
High  o'er  the  silken  braideries  of  kings. 

The  mechanism  of  external  forms — 

The  shifts  that  courtiers  put  their  bodies  through, 
Were  alien  ways  to  him — his  brawny  arms 

Had  other  work  than  posturing  to  do ! 

69 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Born  of  the  people,  well  he  knew  to  grasp 

The  wants  and  wishes  of  the  weak  and  small ; 

Therefore  we  hold  him  with  no  shadow  clasp- 
Therefore  his  name  is  household  to  us  all. 

Therefore  we  love  him  with  a  love  apart 
From  any  fawning  love  of  pedigree — 

His  was  the  royal  soul  and  mind  and  heart—* 
Not  the  poor  outward  shows  of  royalty. 

Forgive  us  then,  O  friends,  if  we  are  slow 
To  meet  your  recognition  of  his  worth — 

We're  jealous  of  the  very  tears  that  flow 

From  eyes  that  never  loved  a  humble  hearth. 


LINCOLN 

S.  Weir  Mitchell 
(Newport,  October,  1891) 

Chained  by  stern  duty  to  the  rock  of  state, 
His  spirit  armed  in  mail  of  rugged  mirth, 
Ever  above,  though  ever  near  the  earth, 

Yet  felt  his  heart  the  vulture  beaks  that  sate 

Base  appetites,  and  foul  with  slander,  wait 
Till  the  keen  lightnings  bring  the  awful  hour 
When  wounds  and  sufferings  shall  give  them  power 

Most  was  he  like  to  Luther,  gay  and  great, 

Solemn  and  mirthful,  strong  of  heart  and  limb. 
Tender  and  simple  too ;  he  was  so  near 
To  all  things  human  that  he  cast  out  fear, 

And,  ever  simpler,  like  a  little  child, 
Lived  in  unconscious  nearness  unto  Him 

Who  always  on  earth's  little  ones  hath  smiled. 

70 


OUR  GOOD  PRESIDENT 

Phoebe  Cary 

Our  sun  hath  gone  down  at  the  noon-day, 

The  heavens  are  black ; 
And  over  the  morning,  the  shadows 

Of  night-time  are  back. 

Stop  the  proud  boasting  mouth  of  the  cannon; 

Hush  the  mirth  and  the  shout ; — 
God  is  God !  and  the  ways  of  Jehovah 

Are  past  finding  out. 

Lo!  the  beautiful  feet  on  the  mountains, 

That  yesterday  stood, 
The  white  feet  that  came  with  glad  tidings 

Are  dabbled  in  blood. 

The  Nation  that  firmly  was  settling 

The  crown  on  her  head, 
Sits  like  Rizpah,  in  sackcloth  and  ashes, 

And  watches  her  dead. 

Who  is  dead?  who,  unmoved  by  our  wailing, 

Is  lying  so  low  ? 
O  my  Land,  stricken  dumb  in  your  anguish, 

Do  you  feel,  do  you  know, 

That  the  hand  which  reached  out  of  the  darkness 

Hath  taken  the  whole; 
Yea,  the  arm  and  the  head  of  the  people, 

The  heart  and  the  soul  ? 

And  that  heart,  o'er  whose  dread  awful  silence 

A  nation  has  wept ; 
Was  the  truest,  the  gentlest,  the  sweetest, 

A  man  ever  kept. 

71 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Why,  he  heard  from  the  dungeons,  the  rice-fields 

The  dark  holds  of  ships, 
Every  faint,  feeble  cry  which  oppression 

Smothered  down  on  men's  lips. 

In  her  furnace,  the  centuries  had  welded 

Their  fetter  and  chain ; 
And  like  withes,  in  the  hands  of  his  purpose, 

He  snapped  them  in  twain. 

Who  can  be  what  he  was  to  the  people, — 

What  he  was  to  the  state  ? 
Shall  the  ages  bring  to  us  another 

As  good  and  as  great  ? 

Our  hearts  with  their  anguish  are  broken, 

Our  wet  eyes  are  dim ; 
For  us  is  the  loss  and  the  sorrow, 

The  triumph  for  him! 

For,  ere  this,  face  to  face  with  his  Father 

Our  martyr  hath  stood ; 
Giving  into  His  hand  a  white  record, 

With  its  great  seal  of  blood. 


THE  VOICE  OF  DESTINY 

Lyman  Whitney  Allen 

The  hour  was  come,  and  in  that  hour  he  stood 
Responsive  to  the  sacred  voice  that  spoke 
From  Heaven  and  earth  and  sea. 
He  heard  the  dusky  toiling  multitude 

Plaintively  pleading  that  his  hand  should  break 
Their  bonds  and  set  them  free. 

72 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

He  heard  the  voice  of  God  from  shining  height, 
Who,  for  the  reason  of  the  Nation's  sin, 
Had  held  her  armies  back 
In  failure  and  defeat,  till  she  should  right 

The  wrongs  herself  had  sanctioned,  and  should  win 
Justice  unto  her  track ; 

When,  girded  with  the  strength  of  righteousness, 
God  for  her,  with  descending  seraphim, 
Above  the  battle's  tide, 
She  then  would  march  to  triumph,  and  possess 
A  land  united  to  the  farthest  rim, 
Through  sorrow  purified. 

THE  MARTYR 

Herman  Melville 

(Indicative  of  the  Passion  of  the  People  on  the  15th  of 
April,  1865) 

Good  Friday  was  the  day 

Of  the  prodigy  and  crime, 
When  they  killed  him  in  his  pity. 

When  they  killed  him  in  his  prime 
Of  clemency  and  calm — 

When  with  yearning  he  was  filled 

To  redeem  the  evil-willed, 
And,  though  conqueror,  be  kind ; 

But  they  killed  him  in  his  kindness, 

In  their  madness,  in  their  blindness, 
And  they  killed  him  from  behind. 

There  is  sobbing  of  the  strong, 

And  a  pall  upon  the  land ; 
But  the  People  in  their  weeping 

Bare  the  iron  hand : 
Beware  the  People  weeping 

When  they  bare  the  iron  hand. 

73 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

He  lieth  in  his  blood — 
The  father  in  his  face ; 

They  have  killed  him,  the  Forgiver — 
The  Avenger  takes  his  place, 

The  Avenger  wisely  stern, 

Who  in  righteousness  shall  do 
What  the  heavens  call  him  to, 

And  the  parricides  remand ; 

For  they  killed  him  in  his  kindness, 
In  their  madness  and  their  blindness, 

And  his  blood  is  on  their  hand. 

There  is  sobbing  of  the  strong, 
And  a  pall  upon  the  land ; 

But  the  People  in  their  weeping 
Bare  the  iron  hand : 

Beware  the  People  weeping 
When  they  bare  the  iron  hand. 


THE  DEAR  PRESIDENT 

John  James  Piatt 

(April  19th,  1865) 

Abraham  Lincoln,  the  Dear  President, 

Lay  in  the  Round  Hall  at  the  Capitol, 

And  there  the  people  came  to  look  their  last. 

There  came  the  widow,  weeded  for  her  mate ; 
There  came  the  mother,  sorrowing  for  her  son ; 
There  came  the  orphan,  moaning  for  its  sire. 

There  came  the  soldier,  bearing  home  his  wound ; 
There  came  the  slave,  who  felt  his  broken  chain ; 
There  came  the  mourners  of  a  blackened  land. 

74 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Through  the  dark  April  day,  a  ceaseless  throng, 
They  passed  the  coffin,  saw  the  sleeping  face, 
And,  blessing  it,  in  silence  moved  away. 

And  one,  a  poet,  spake  within  his  heart : 
"It  harmed  him  not  to  praise  him  when  alive, 
And  me  it  shall  not  harm  to  praise  him  dead. 

"Too  oft  the  muse  has  blushed  to  speak  of  men — 
No  muse  shall  blush  to  speak  her  best  of  him, 
And  still  to  speak  her  best  of  him  is  dumb. 

"O  lofty  wisdom's  low  simplicity! 
O  awful  tenderness  of  voted  power! — 
No  man  e'er  held  so  much  of  power  so  meek. 

"He  was  the  husband  of  the  husbandless, 
He  was  the  father  of  the  fatherless: 
Within  his  heart  he  weighed  the  common  woe. 

"His  call  was  like  a  father's  to  his  sons! 
As  to  a  father's  voice,  they,  hearing,  came — 
Eager  to  offer,  strive,  endure,  and  die. 

"The  mild  bond-breaker,  servant  of  the  Lord, 
He  took  the  sword,  but  in  the  name  of  Peace, 
And  touched  the  fetter,  and  the  bound  was  free. 

"Oh,  place  him  not  among  historic  kings, 
Strong,  barbarous  chiefs  and  bloody  conquerors, 
But  with  the  great  and  pure  Republicans : 

"Those  who  have  been  unselfish,  wise  and  good, 
Bringers  of  Light  and  Pilots  in  the  Dark, 
Bearers  of  Crosses,  Servants  of  the  World. 

"And  always,  in  his  Land  of  birth  and  death, 
Be  his  fond  name — warmed  in  the  people's  hearts- 
Abraham  Lincoln,  the  Dear  President." 

75 


LINCOLN 

Benjamin  S.  Parker 
(Tndianapolis,  April  30th,  A.  D.  1865) 

The  voice  is  hushed,  the  heart  is  still, 

No  light  is  in  the  earnest  eye 
That  lately  looked  on  war's  wild  ill 

And  wept  where  fallen  heroes  lie. 

We  kindle  brightly  to  thy  praise, 
We  melt  in  sorrow  at  thy  bier, 

And  wonder,  in  the  boundless  days, 
When  God  shall  every  truth  insphere 

In  worlds  all  wisdom,  all  delight, 

What  crowns  thy  spirit  brow  shall  wear, 

When  past  the  terror  and  the  night, 
Thou  soarest  into  morning  there. 

O  choral  lips  of  love  and  song! 

The  world's  harmonic  multitude 
That  through  the  ages  dim  and  long, 

Have  prophesied  the  coming  good, — 

Philosopher  and  saint  and  seer, 

Of  every  age  and  race  and  clime, — 

Behold  the  promised  days  are  near, 
Auroral  on  the  hills  of  time. 

We  read  the  blessed  morrow's  sign, 
That  comes  to  hallow  every  place, 

In  every  feature,  every  line 
Of  that  upturned  and  calmest  face. 

76 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

From  this  dear  sacrifice  we  learn 

That  future's  full  reality, 
How  freedom's  flame  shall  mount  and  burn 

Above  the  tomb  of  slavery. 

How  age  on  age  shall  pile  its  weight ; 

Yet  through  the  twilight  dim  and  far, 
Among  the  wise  and  good  and  great, 

Shall  Lincoln  shine,  a  morning  star. 

The  useless  lash,  the  broken  chain, 
Black  swarms  of  traffic  turn  to  men, 

iWar  fruiting  with  eternal  gain, 
That  ripens  into  peace  again. 

These  glorify  the  places  where 

Thy  paths  have  been,  O  true  and  brave ! 
And  these  inspire  the  prairie  air 

To  sing  its  rest  above  thy  grave. 

Rest !  patriot,  martyr,  savior,  friend, 
Defender  of  the  poor  and  weak! 

Thy  glory  shall  not  have  an  end 

While  history  has  a  voice  to  speak. 


THE  VISION  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

Wendell  Phillips  Garrison 
(April  14th,  1865) 

Dreaming,  he  woke,  our  Martyr  President, 
And  still  the  vision  lingered  in  his  mind, 
(Problem  at  once  and  prophecy  combined) 

A  flying  bark  with  all  her  canvas  bent: 

77 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Joy-bringing  herald  of  some  great  event 

Oft  when  the  wavering  scale  of  war  inclined 
To  Freedom's  side ;  now  how  to  be  divined 

Uncertain,  since  rebellion's  force  was  spent. 

So,  of  the  omen  heedful,  as  of  Fate, 

Lincoln  with  curious  eye  the  horizon  scanned : 

At  morn,  with  hopes  of  port  and  peace  elate ; 
At  night,  like  Palinurus — in  his  hand 

The  broken  tiller  of  the  Ship  of  State — 

Flung  on  the  margin  of  the  Promised  Land. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

James  Nicoll  Johnston 
(Lying  in  State  in  Buffalo,  April  27th,  1865) 

Bear  him  to  his  Western  home, 

Whence  he  came  four  years  ago ; 
Not  beneath  some  Eastern  dome, 
But  where  Freedom's  airs  may  come, 
Where  the  prairie  grasses  grow, 
To  the  friends  who  loved  him  so. 

Take  him  to  his  quiet  rest ; 

Toll  the  bell  and  fire  the  gun ; 
He  who  served  his  country  best, 
He  whom  millions  loved  and  bless'd, 

Now  has  fame  immortal  won ; 

Rack  of  brain  and  heart  is  done. 

Shed  thy  tears,  O  April  rain ! 
O'er  the  tomb  wherein  he  sleeps ! 

Wash  away  the  bloody  stain ! 

Drape  the  skies  in  grief,  O  rain ! 
Lo !  a  nation  with  thee  weeps, 
Grieving  o'er  her  martyred  slain. 

78 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

To  the  people  whence  he  came, 
Bear  him  gently  back  again, 

Greater  his  than  victor's  fame; 

His  is  now  a  sainted  name ; 
Never  ruler  had  such  gain — 
Never  people  had  such  pain. 


LINCOLN 

Orpheus  C,  Kerr 
(Robert  Henry  Newell) 


'Twas  needed — the  name  of  a  Martyr  sublime, 

To  vindicate  God  in  that  terrible  time ! 

'Twas  fitting  the  thunder  of  Heaven  should  roll, 

Ere  cannon  exultant  had  deafened  the  soul 

To  what  in  all  ages  the  Maker  had  taught, 

The  pardon  of  sin  is  with  suffering  bought, 

And  just  was  the  doom  that  the  lightning  should  fall 

On  him,  the  supreme  and  head  of  us  all, 

Ere,  blest  in  his  living  the  triumph  to  seal, 

The  Victor  forgot  what  the  Brother  should  feel. 

For  still  with  the  vanquished  we  shared  in  the  guilt 

That  struck  us  at  last  to  the  murderous  hilt ; 

And  still  unto  us  did  the  horror  belong 

Of  helping  a  brother  to  wed  with  the  Wrong, 

Till  fostered  to  treason  by  parent  and  kin, 

A  traitor  to  both  was  the  child  of  the  sin. 

Then  thine  to  atone  for  the  shame  in  the  end, 

Our  gentle  First  Citizen,  Chieftain,  and  Friend. 

79 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

ii 

And  honestly  plain  as  thyself  be  the  verse 

Such  living  and  dying  as  thine  to  rehearse ; 

Not  tuned  to  the  rhythmical  music  of  art, 

But  simple  of  note  as  the  pulse  of  the  heart 

That  answers  the  touch  of  the  hand  on  the  strings 

When  man  for  the  noblest  humanity  sings. 

From  page  unto  page  of  thy  story  we  trace 

The  strength  of  thy  manhood,  the  light  of  thy  face 

Thy  merciful  soul  and  thy  wisdom  are  there; 

An  honesty  open  and  clear  as  the  air ; 

A  spirit  to  mold  from  the  fetters  of  birth, 

A  crown  for  a  peer  of  the  kings  of  the  earth; 

A  nature  to  wear  in  the  palace  of  State 

The  mind  of  the  humble  that  stand  in  the  gate; 

A  grace,  of  humanity's  brotherhood  bred, 

To  bend  with  the  wrong  to  the  lowliest  head ; 

To  bear  up  the  height  unto  Freedom  the  Slave, 

And  find  upon  Pisgah  his  thanks — and  a  grave ! 

in 

How  pure  is  the  luster  of  virtues  that  climb 
Imperial  summits  of  power  in  their  time, 
Unaided  by  patronage,  conquest,  or  birth, 
But  lifted  aloft  by  the  magic  of  worth : 
Like  jewels  in  primal  reflection  that  shine, — 
Not  drawn  from  a  casket,  but  raised  from  the  mine, 
A  growth  from  the  sunless  domain  of  the  moles, 
Yet  born  with  a  splendor  of  light  in  their  souls! 
Behold  where  the  boy  at  the  plow  in  the  West 
Inherits  such  virtues  to  glow  in  his  breast : 
He  knows  not  his  riches ;  he  bends  to  his  toil, 
Where  scant  is  the  harvest  and  stubborn  the  soil ; 
While  broods  in  his  bosom  such  patience  serene 
As  giveth  to  labor  its  tenderest  mien. 

80 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

None  tell  to  the  liegeless  of  houses  and  lands 
The  fate  of  a  people  shall  rest  in  his  hands ; 
Yet  sleeps  there  a  might  in  the  calm  of  his  eye 
To  rescue  a  nation  from  death — and  to  die ! 

IV 

Oh,  bitterest  lot  that  the  lowly  can  find, 

Where  labor's  monotony  crushes  the  mind, 

Till  poverty,  prisoned  in  poverty  still, 

To  dust  is  degraded,  or  maddened  to  kill. 

'Tis  thus  in  the  countries  far  over  the  sea, 

But  happy  the  poor  man,  my  Country,  in  thee ; 

For  wide  over  thee  may  his  industry  range, 

And  sweeten  his  toil  with  the  blessing  of  change. 

From  tracing  the  furrow  and  planting  the  grain, 

The  youth  turneth  back  and  forsaketh  the  plain : 

He  mates  with  the  boatmen,  and  joins  in  their  song, 

Where  rolleth  the  Father  of  Waters  along : 

Still  patient  with  fortune,  still  earnest  to  bear 

What  God  and  humanity  mark  for  his  share. 

None  read  from  the  future  his  glorious  fate, 

To  stand  at  the  helm  of  the  vessel  of  State, 

Its  stay  till  the  night  and  the  tempest  are  done, 

And  then  into  Heaven  go  up  with  the  sun ! 


v 


Well  tried  is  the  genius  that  rises  to  rule 
From  lessons  of  man  in  adversity's  school : 
Ill-balanced  by  honors  too  lavishly  flung, 
It  scorneth  the  level  from  which  it  hath  sprung; 
Imbittered  with  contest  with  rank  as  it  rose, 
Its  texture  is  iron  that  hardens  with  blows ; 
Or,  true  to  the  balance,  in  victory  mild, 
It  tow'rs  like  a  mountain  grown  up  from  the  wild; 

81 


THE   PRAISE   OE   LINCOLN 

Broad-set  at  its  base  in  the  primitive  clod, 

To  shrink  to  a  spire  of  the  temple  of  God. 

So  he,  in  a  grander  simplicity  hale, 

Goes  up  to  a  height  from  obscurity's  vale ; 

So,  true  to  the  lowly,  sublime  to  the  high, 

To  these  he  lends  counsel,  with  those  in  his  eye : 

"Half  Free  and  half  Slave  the  Republic  must  fall; 

Yet  saved  it  shall  be,"  are  his  words  for  us  all ! 

Time  put  him  to  proof  when  the  issue  was  tried — 

He  lived  for  the  Deed,  for  the  Principle  died ! 

VI 

Now,  borne  on  his  countrymen's  louder  acclaim, 

He  mounts  to  the  station  most  noble  of  fame ; 

A  chief  in  the  halls  where  a  Washington  stood, 

And  like  unto  him  as  the  good  to  the  good ; 

Foul  Treason  has  risen,  its  horrors  flame  forth 

To  rouse  from  their  slumbers  the  souls  of  the  North, 

And  pealeth  from  cities,  from  prairies  and  farms, 

The  rallying  cry  of  the  loyal  in  arms. 

.War  breaks  on  the  Nation,  she  enters  the  strife 

And  struggles  with  traitors  for  Honor  and  Life! 

Where  dwelleth  the  spirit  her  being  to  save 

From  murderers  bred  in  the  toil  of  the  slave? 

The  Capitol  answers :  the  spirit  is  there, 

And  holdeth  its  court  in  the  President's  chair. 

That  nature  so  gentle  containeth  a  will 

Which  glows  like  a  fire  in  an  air  that  is  still — 

Alas!  that  our  pillar  of  guidance  by  night 

Should  fade  from  the  world  at  the  coming  of  light! 

VII 

Why  follow  the  record  ?    His  glories  are  told 
In  all  that  the  people  the  tenderest  hold : 
A  nation  redeemed,  and  her  banner  unfurled 
The  fairest,  the  strongest,  the  best  in  the  world. 

82 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Henceforth  be  that  banner  to  patriot  eyes 

A  prayer  from  its  Shepherd  of  Stars  in  the  skies, — 

To  plead  that  no  judgment  in  malice  may  fall, 

To  speak  for  a  charity  free  unto  all, 

To  glow  on  the  sword  that  is  drawn  for  the  Right, 

While  merciful  still  in  the  midst  of  the  fight: 

Henceforth  be  its  legend  for  ages  to  view, 

Its  stripes  of  the  dawn  and  its  planeted  blue, 

That  ere  from  its  story  the  darkness  was  torn, 

A  something  of  Heaven  shed  blood  on  the  morn, 

In  sign  that  'tis  given  the  godlike  of  earth 

To  pass  through  a  death  for  the  millions'  new  birth, 

To  die  of  the  night's  weary  vigil  and  care, 

When  day  the  eternal  first  whitens  the  air. 


LINCOLN'S  LAST  DREAM 

Hezekiah  Butterworth 
I 

April  flowers  were  in  the  hollows;  in  the  air  were 

April  bells, 
And  the  wings  of  purple  swallows  rested  on  the  battle 

shells. 
From  the  war's  long  scene  of  horror  now  the  nation 

found  release; 
All  the  day  the  old  war  bugles  blew  the  blessed  note  of 

peace. 
Thwart  the  twilight's  damask  curtains 

Fell  the  night  upon  the  land, 
Like  God's  smile  of  benediction 

Shadowed  faintly  by  his  hand. 
In  the  twilight,  in  the  dusklight,  in  the  starlight,  every- 
where, 
Banners  waved  like  garden  flowers  in  the  palpitating 

air. 

83 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 
ii 

In  Art's  temple  there  were  greetings,  gentle  hurryings 

of  feet, 
And  triumphant  strains  of  music  rose  amid  the  num- 
bers sweet, 
Soldiers  gathered,  heroes  gathered,  women  beautiful 

were  there : 
Will  he  come,  the  man  Beloved,  there  to  rest  an  hour 

from  care? 
Will  he  come  who  for  the  people 

Long  the  cross  of  pain  has  borne, — 
Prayed  in  silence,  wept  in  silence, 

Held  the  hand  of  God  alone  ? 
Will  he  share  the  hour  of  triumph,  now  his  mighty 

work  is  done  ? 
Here  receive  the  people's  plaudits,  now  the  victory  is 

won? 

in 

O'er  thy  dimpled  waves,   Potomac,   softly  now  the 

moonbeams  creep; 
O'er  fair  Arlington's  green  meadows,  where  the  brave 

forever  sleep, 
Tis  Good  Friday;  bells  are  tolling,  bells  of  chapel  beat 

the  air 
On  thy  quiet  shores,  Potomac;  Arlington,  serene  and 

fair. 
And  he  comes,  the  nation's  hero, 

From  the  White  House,  worn  with  care ; 
Hears  the  name  of  "Lincoln !"  ringing 

In  the  thronged  streets  everywhere ; 
Hears  the  bells, — what  memories  bringing  to  his  long- 
uplifted  heart! 
Hears  the  plaudits  of  the  people  as  he  gains  the  Hall  of 

Art. 

84 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 
rv 

Throbs  the  air  with  thrilling'  music,  gayly  onward 

sweeps  the  play ; 
But  he  little  heeds  the  laughter,  for  his  thoughts  are 

far  away ; 
And  he  whispers  faintly,  sadly,  "Oft  a  blessed  Form  I 

see, 
Walking  calmly  'mid  the  people  on  the  shores  of  Gali- 
lee; 
Oft  I've  wished  His  steps  to  follow, 

Follow  Him,  the  Man  Divine ; 
When  the  cares  of  state  are  over, 

I  will  go  to  Palestine, 
And  the  paths  the  Blessed  followed  I  will  walk  from 

sea  to  sea, 
Follow  Him  who  healed  the  people  on  the  shores  of 

Galilee.,, 


Hung  the  flag  triumphant  o'er  him ;  and  his  eyes  with 

tears  were  dim, 
Though  a  thousand  eyes  before  him  lifted  oft  their 

smiles  to  him. 
Forms  of  statesmen,  forms  of  heroes,  women  beautiful 

were  there, 
But  it  was  another  vision  that  had  calmed  his  brow  of 

care: 
Tabor  glowed  in  light  before  him, 

Carmel  in  the  evening  sun ; 
Faith's  strong  armies  grandly  marching 

Through  the  vale  of  Esdralon : 
Bethany's  palm-shaded  gardens,  where  the  Lord;  the 

sisters  met, 
And  the  Pascal  moon  arising  o'er  the  brow  of  Olivet. 

85 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

VI 

Now;  the  breath  of  light  applauses  rose  the  templed 

arches  through, 
Stirred  the  folds  of  silken  banners,  mingled  red  and 

white  and  blue ; 
But  the  Dreamer  seemed  to  heed  not :  rose  the  past  his 

eyes  before, — 
Armies  guarding  the  Potomac,  flashing  through  the 

Shenandoah ; 
Gathering  armies,  darkening  navies, 

Heroes  marching  forth  to  die ; 
Chickamauga,  Chattanooga, 

And  the  Battle  of  the  Sky; 
Silent  prayers  to  free  the  bondmen  in  the  ordeal  of  fire, 
And  God's  angel's  sword  uplifted  to  fulfill  his  heart's 

desire. 


VII 

Thought  he  of  the  streets  of  Richmond  on  the  late 
triumphant  day 

When  the  swords  of  vanquished  leaders  at  his  feet  sur- 
rendered lay ; 

When,  amid  the  sweet  bells  ringing,   all  the  sabled 
multitudes 

Shouted  forth  the  name  of  "Lincoln!"  like  a  rushing 
of  the  floods ; 
Thought  of  all  his  heart  had  suffered; 

All  his  struggles  and  renown ; 
Dreaming  not  that  just  above  him 
Lifted  was  the  martyr's  crown; 

Seeing  not  the  dark  form  stealing  through  the  music- 
haunted  air ; 

Knowing  not  that  'mid  the  triumph  the  betrayer's  feet 
were  there. 

86 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

VIII 

Flash!  what  scymetar  of  fire  lit  the  flag  with  lurid 

light? 
Hush!  what  means  the  shuddering  silence,  what  that 

woman's  shriek  of  fright? 
Puff  of  smoke?  the  call-bell  ringing?  why  has  stopped 

the  airy  play? 
Why  the  fixed  looks  of  the  players  that  a  moment  past 

were  gay  ? 
Why  the  murmu rings,  strange,  uncertain, 

Why  do  faces  turn  so  white, 
Why  descends  the  affrighted  curtain 

Like  a  wild  cloud  'thwart  the  sight  ? 
Why  the  brute  cries?  why  the  tumult?    Has  Death 

found  the  Hall  of  Art  ? 
Hush!     What  say  those  quivering  whispers  turning 

into  stone  each  heart  ? 


IX 

April  morning;  flags  are  blowing;  'thwart  each  flag  a 

sable  bar. 
Dead  the  leader  of  the  people ;  dead,  the  world's  great 

commoner. 
Bells  on  the  Potomac  tolling ;  tolling  by  the  Sangamon ; 
Tolling  from  the  broad  Atlantic  to  the  Ocean  of  the 

Sun. 
Friend  and  foe  clasp  hands  in  silence, 

Listen  to  the  low  prayers  said, 
Hear  the  people's  benedictions, 

Hear  the  nations  praise  the  dead. 
Lovely  land  of  Palestine!  he  thy  shores  shall  never  see, 
But,  his  dream  fulfilled,  he  follows  Him  who  walked  in 

Galilee. 

87 


LINCOLN'S  PASSING  BELL' 

Lucy  Larcom 
(April  15th,  1865) 

Tolling,  tolling,  tolling ! 

All  the  bells  of  the  land! 
Lo !  the  patriot  martyr 

Taketh  his  journey  grrmd; 
Travels  into  the  ages, 

Bearing  a  hope  how  dear! 
Into  life's  unknown  vistas, 

Liberty's  great  pioneer. 

Tolling,  tolling,  tolling ! 

Do  the  budded  violets  know 
The  pain  of  the  lingering  clangor 

Shaking  their  bloom  out  so  ? 
They  open  into  strange  sorrow, 

The  rain  of  a  nation's  tears; 
Into  the  saddest  April 

Twined  with  the  New  World's  years. 

Tolling,  tolling,  tolling ! 

See,  they  come  as  a  cloud, — 
Hearts  of  a  mighty  people, 

Bearing  his  pall  and  shroud ! 
Lifting  up,  like  a  banner, 

Signals  of  loss  and  woe ! 
Wonder  of  breathless  nations, 

Moveth  the  solemn  show. 

Tolling,  tolling,  tolling ! 

Was  it,  O  man  beloved, — 
Was  it  thy  funeral  only, 

Over  the  land  that  moved  ? 
88 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Veiled  by  that  hour  of  anguish, 
Borne  with  the  rebel  rout, 

Forth  into  utter  darkness, 
Slavery's  corse  went  out. 


FOR  THE  SERVICES  IN  MEMORY 
OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

(City  of  Boston,  June  ist,  1865 — Choral:   Luther's 
"Judgment  Hymn") 

O  Thou  of  soul  and  sense  and  breath, 

The  ever-present  Giver, 
Unto  thy  mighty  Angel,  Death, 

All  flesh  thou  dost  deliver; 
What  most  we  cherish  we  resign, 
For  life  and  death  alike  are  thine, 

Who  reignest  Lord  forever ! 

Our  hearts  lie  buried  in  the  dust 
With  him  so  true  and  tender, 

The  patriot's  stay,  the  people's  trust, 
The  shield  of  the  offender; 

Yet  every  murmuring  voice  is  still, 

As,  bowing  to  thy  sovereign  will, 
Our  best-loved  we  surrender. 

Dear  Lord,  with  pitying  eye  behold 

This  martyr  generation, 
Which  thou,  through  trials  manifold, 

Art  showing  thy  salvation ! 
O  let  the  blood  by  murder  spilt 
Wash  out  thy  stricken  children's  guilt 

And  sanctify  our  nation ! 

89 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Be  thou  thy  orphaned  Israel's  friend, 

Forsake  thy  people  never, 
In  One  our  Broken  Many  blend, 

That  none  again  may  sever! 
Hear  us,  O  Father,  while  we  raise 
With  trembling  lips  our  song  of  praise, 

And  bless  thy  name  forever ! 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Amasa  Stetson  Condon 
Columbia's  prophecy,  February  12th,  1809 

Somewhere  to-day  in  dolor  and  in  want, 
Where  tears  are  plenty  and  bread  is  scarce, 

And  prowling  ghosts  from  a  luckless  haunt 
Make  home  a  mockery  and  life  a  farce; 

Like  the  dissonant  wail  from  a  tuneless  chord, 

There  the  first  low  wail  of  a  child  shall  be  heard. 

And  the  large  asking  eyes  full  of  baby  awe, 

That  will  question  the  cheer  of  the  wretched  den, 

Shall  behold,  rising  out  of  this  cradle  of  straw, 
A  temple  ornate  with  affections  of  men ; 

And  when  my  bright  stars  shall  be  paling  their  hue, 

Then  his  hand  shall  recast  the  whole  field  of  blue. 

THE  FULFILMENT,  APRIL  14,   1865 

Let  cunning  lips  that  are  crafty  in  speech, 

Praise  "My  Royal  Lord"  and  his  Lady  proud ; 

Let  pliant  tongues  loquacious  preach 
Of  the  baron  bold  and  his  noble  blood; 

Let  knights  call  the  names  of  their  fathers  up, 
And  toast  them  with  jeweled  lance  in  rest, 

But  with  humble  hand  I  will  raise  a  cup 

•     To  one  that  is  greater  than  their  guest. 

90 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

We  will  pour  from  a  lip  in  the  tangled  horn, 

A  milk-white  draught  that  the  Crete  adored, 
To  celebrate  a  patriot  born 

In  a  tree-nailed  box  of  rough  deal  board; 
We  will  drink  to  him  whose  infant  eyes 

Looked  first  on  clouds  of  a  leaden  hue, 
That  hanging  dense  in  the  morning  skies, 

Hid  the  Orient  beams  of  the  sun  from  view. 

Till  the  climax  that  finished  a  glorified  life, 

These  furrowing  sorrows  he  patiently  bore ; 
And  the  long,  painful  years  of  a  crucial  strife 

Scarce  added  a  line  to  the  horologue's  score ; 
Like  a  tell-tale  map  were  his  lineaments  cast, 

In  a  mold  where  sufferings  had  graved  their  trace ; 
And  always  pursuing,  this  ghost  of  the  past 

Told  the  story  pathetic  on  his  face. 

But  the  boy  crept  out  of  poverty's  bed, 

To  follow  the  sibyl's  magic  wand ; 
And  always  thereafter,  where  duty  led, 

They  journeyed  together,  hand  in  hand ; 
Thou  canst  trace  the  stars  in  the  ebon  night, 

As  they  answer  the  beck  of  some  hidden  force; 
But  how  little  thou  know'st  of  the  subtle  might 

That  drives  them  along  in  their  silent  course. 

So  the  playful  sprite  weaves  a  silken  net, 

But  its  meshes  are  strong  as  a  web  of  steel ; 
At  a  turn  in  the  path  the  snare  is  set 

Where  no  vigilant  eye  can  its  presence  reveal ; 
A  captive  thenceforth  in  the  fairy  train, 

Where  censure  condemns  or  glad  salvos  ring ; 
But  ever  he  follows  the  tractile  chain, 

A  beggar  to-day,  but  to-morrow — a  king. 


91 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

The  hills  that  grew  brown  in  the  bitter  breath 

That  sifted  through  clouds  the  winged  snow, 
Will  sprinkle  with  blossoms  this  realm  of  death, 

When  the  south  wind  coaxes  the  buds  to  blow ; 
So  genius,  if  fettered,  will  languish  in  gloom, 

Till  a  herald  proclaims  the  appointed  day ; 
Then  'twill  burst  the  strong  door  of  its  sullen  tomb, 

If  some  angel  but  roll  the  stone  away. 

But  the  tide  of  events  flows  white  from  the  shore, 

To  bear  him  away  on  its  stormy  breast ; 
O  proud  Illinois,  he  is  thine  no  more ! 

He  belongs  to  the  world  as  thy  sacred  bequest ; 
There's  the  altar  prepared  for  this  gift  of  thy  love, 

And  the  fire,  and  the  dirge,  and  the  buffeting  throng; 
But  only  the  Father  in  Heaven  above 

Can  fathom  the  bounty  to  outrage  and  wrong. 

But  the  time  is  at  hand  when  this  man  will  be  tried, 

As  gold  in  a  furnace  that's  heated  seven- fold; 
If  the  metal  be  base  we  will  cast  it  aside, 

But  fire  shall  determine  which  is  dross,  which  is 
gold; 
Let  the  cynic  behold,  for  the  trial  begins, 

And  the  test  is  of  wisdom  and  courage  combined ; 
If  his  arm  be  of  reed  he  will  fail;  if  he  wins, 

He's  the  stuff  that  makes  gods  of  mankind. 

On  the  tempest-torn  main,  in  the  offing  out  yonder, 

The  waves  clasp  the  sky  and  sink  down  with  a  roar, 
And  rolling  together  with  tumult  and  thunder, 

Break  white  o'er  the  sea-wall  that  circles  the  shore; 
Like  the  wing  of  a  bird  on  a  faint  rim  of  sky, 

Or  the  shadow  of  hope  we  see  in  a  dream, 
The  proud  Ship  of  State  shakes  her  canvas  on  high, 

Defying  the  storm  and  the  lightning's  red  gleam. 

92 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

But  pirates  have  shifted  the  buoys  from  the  bar 

To  the  land-girted  harbor,  as  signals  of  woe ; 
And  pirates  are  coaxing  where  th'  gray  breakers  are, 

And  the  ship  has  a  deck-load  of  pirates  below; 
But  the  Lincoln  that  slept  in  a  cradle  of  straw, 

Stood  brave  on  the  bridge  with  trumpet  in  hand ; 
And,  peering  through  darkness  and  tempest,  he  saw 

The  only  safe  roadstead  that  led  to  the  land. 


But  away  with  these  symbols  that  baffle  my  muse, 
And  tangle  the  gait  of  a  smooth-flowing  song; 

So  to  happy-eyed  Metaphor  waving  a  truce, 
On  sturdy  Pegasus  I'll  gallop  along. 


At  a  snug  little  farm-house  that  stands  on  a  hill, 

A  widow  grief-stricken  bequeathes  her  last  son ; 
And  a  fair  girl  will  wait  at  the  tryst  by  the  mill, 

Whose  white  lips  will  whisper  "Good-bye ;"  and  he's 
gone. 
So  the  villager's  hope  and  the  rich  city's  pride, 

With  music  that  chases  the  echoes  afar, 
Float  down  the  broad  streets  in  a  living  tide, 

To  join  in  the  glory  and  murder  of  war. 

How  graphic  the  picture  that  drops  from  a  pen 

While  a-painting  of  scenes  from  those  long  years  of 
dread, 
From  the  fear  in  the  souls  of  the  children  of  men, 

As  they  read  the  long  lists  of  sacrificed  dead ; — 
From  the  dews  of  the  South  turned  to  red  showers  of 
rain 

That  guttered  the  turf  on  the  rolling  lea, — 
From  the  crimson-lipped  bud  on  the  conscious  plain, — 

From  the  grave  where  Death  held  his  wild  jubilee ! 

93 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

In  yon  pretty  cottage  contentment  once  reigned, 

And  all  the  bright  dreams  that  thrift  could  inspire, 
Now  a  prey  in  the  grasp  of  demons  unchained, 

And  melting  away  in  the  hot  tongues  of  fire ; 
The  playground  once  sacred  to  childhood's  retreat, 

With  its  carpet  of  green  that  lay  soft  on  the  earth, 
Now  trod  to  a  mire  by  vandal-shod  feet, 

And  still  as  the  grave  are  the  voices  of  mirth. 

There's  the  far-reaching  lawn ;  in  the  arbor  below 

Was  the  rope-braided  gig  that  swept  close  by  the 
spring; 
But  the  leaves  have  grown  black  in  the  path  of  the  foe, 

And  a  halter  is  made  of  the  children's  swing; 
The  slow-throbbing  drum,  and  the  fife's  wailing  cry, 

And  the  voice  of  a  wretch  in  his  brief  epilogue, 
Proclaim  the  last  act  in  the  fate  of  a  spy, 

Who  faces  the  doom  of  a  dishonored  dog. 

There  the  smooth-flowing  sea  has  extinguished   its 
foam, 
And  soft  on  its  bosom  the  night  tapers  burn; 
While  the  sailor-boy  dreams  of  his  sweetheart  and 
home, 
And  the  friends  of  his  youth  that  await  his  return ; 
But  a  black  skulking  shadow  through  darkness  less 
black, 
Like  a  fire-breathing  courser,  plows  over  the  main; 
And  swift  as  a  sleuth-hound  that  is  hot  on  the  track, 
Submerges  its  prey  in  a  white-foaming  grave. 

And  thus  through  the  years  burned  the  passions  of 
hate, 

As  if  Satan's  new  reign  on  the  earth  had  begun; 
Inciting  to  murder  the  filial  ingrate, 

And  guiding  the  knife  to  the  throat  of  the  son; 

94 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Braiding  haloes  of  flame  from  a  blistered  sky, 
Whose  fires  put  to  shame  the  mad  rocket's  light ; 

And  the  iron  messengers  screaming  by 

To  gash  the  red  earth  in  their  random  flight. 

But  true  to  his  trust,  and  with  "Right"  for  his  guide, 

'Mid  contention  at  home  and  confusion  abroad, 
He  held  on  his  way  till  the  foe's  humbled  pride 

Had  thrown  down  the  altars  set  up  to  their  god ; 
But  how  oft,  when  his  own  heart  was  bursting  with 
care, 

Did  he  pause  an  encouraging  word  to  bestow ; — 
To  patiently  heed  a  supplicant's  prayer, 

And  speak  peace  to  a  mind  distracted  with  woe. 

But  peace  spread  her  wings  to  the  gaze  of  the  world, 

And  the  stars  sang  again  in  the  angels'  employ ; 
While  the  turbulent  banners  of  discord  were  furled, 

And  the  laughing  sky  rocked  with  hosannas  of  joy. 
When  the  battlefield  buzzards  had  stilled  their  hoarse 
cry, 

And  the  spirit  of  hate  had  fettered  its  rage ; 
Then  a  blow  struck  him  down  like  a  bolt  from  the  sky ! 

O  God,  could  I  cancel  this  blot  from  my  page ! 

But  the  record  is  made,  and  the  world  knows  the 
rest : — • 

How  it  smothered  in  flowers  the  grief  on  his  bier; 
And  mourned  him,  of  men  the  truest  and  best, 

That  had  lived  out  the  span  of  a  mortal's  career; 
Yes,  the  record  is  made,  and  this  man  has  been  tried 

As  gold  in  a  furnace  that's  heated  seven- fold ; 
But  the  urn  holds  no  dross  to  throw  idly  aside, 

For  fire  hath  determined  the  whole  mass  is  gold. 


95 


LINCOLN 

B.  F.  M.  Sours 

Over  snowy  fields  of  cotton, 

Bend  the  faces  brown  and  eager; 
Over  snowy  fields  of  cotton 

Bend  the  forms  with  raiment  meager. 
Theirs  the  labor,  theirs  the  sunshine, 

Theirs  the  lash  and  curse  and  sorrow ; 
Theirs  the  pleading  prayers  to  Heaven 

For  some  happier  to-morrow ; 
Theirs  the  suffering  of  the  years, 
And  the  woe  and  bitter  tears. 

On  all  fields  of  strain  and  struggle 

Was  the  black  man  ever  toiling; 
On  all  wide  plantation  stretches 

Was  his  freeborn  soul  recoiling. 
There  were  masters  kind  and  gentle, 

There  were  masters  with  their  lashes — 
See !  the  age  adown  the  gorges 

Of  the  wild  range  madly  dashes ! 
Whither  ?    Whither  ?    Ah !  which  way  ? 
Earth  shall  know  thy  judgment  day ! 

On  the  block  were  little  babies 

Sold  from  mothers'  warm  embraces ; 
On  the  block  were  sold  to  demons 

Gentle  lives  with  girlish  graces ; 
On  the  block  were  husbands,  praying, 

Rent  from  wives  all  weeping,  pleading, 
Shrieking  in  their  dread  undoing, 

With  no  strong  one  interceding — 
Crime !  crime  trod  that  horrid  path 
'Neath  the  God  of  holy  wrath. 

96 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Dark — all  dark !    O  for  the  breaking 

Of  the  damp,  dark  night  all  dreary! 
Where  is  rest,  is  rest  and  rapture 

For  the  sorrowful  and  weary? 
See !  the  first  faint  streaks  of  dawning 

Seem  to  make  the  cold  sky  shiver — 
There !  athwart  the  eastern  meadows 

Do  the  red  streaks  blend  and  quiver ! 
Does  there  dawn  a  brighter  day? 
The  glad  morn  is  on  its  way. 

Nightmare  ?    Yes ;  unrest  and  tossing 

Seemed  to  shake  the  nation's  slumber; 
There  were  specters  and  hobgoblins, 

There  were  ghosts  which  baffled  number. 
Old  John  Brown  cast  long  his  shadow 

In  the  lurid  lightning  flashes ; 
Many  another  seemed  to  startle ; 

Then  the  dreamer,  ghost-mad,  dashes, 
For  the  bad,  and  for  the  good, 
To  bathe  brother  swords  in  blood. 

For  a  meteor  flashed  across  the  sky, 

And  it  filled  the  world  with  dread ; 
And  the  flash  and  the  clash  of  brothers'  swords 

Piled  field  on  field  with  dead : 
For  God  had  bathed  his  sword  in  Heaven 

To  lay  a  demon  low, 
To  drive  a  nation  to  its  knees — 

Stubborn — by  blow  on  blow ! 
And  a  meteor  flashed  across  the  sky 
That  the  inhuman  thing  might  die. 

Lincoln !  Lincoln !  born  to  scatter 
Shackles  from  the  human  cattle — ■ 

Born  to  throne  the  human  instincts 
High  above  the  sullen  battle 

97 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

For  the  purse  and  pride  and  pleasure 
Of  a  master — born  to  woo  him 

For  his  diadem  of  glory, 

Bringing  joy  and  manhood  to  him—* 

There  are  millions  of  men  free 

Who  have  not  forgotten  thee ! 

For  the  broken  shaft  was  noble 

Though  a  foeman  did  it  sever; 
And  the  glory  of  thee,  chieftain, 

Will  be  sung  by  bards  forever : 
For  'twas  God  above  who  sent  thee 

To  the.  black  man  who  was  praying, 
To  deliver  from  his  bondage, 

And  to  cease  a  nation's  straying; 
And  he  wrought  the  work  by  thee, 
That  thy  fellow-man  is  free. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Monroe  Sprowl 

In  cabined  solitude,  beside  dim  fires  at  midnight  hour, 

While  others  drowsed  and  dreamt  of  Fame's  applause, 

This  man-to-be  carved  out  his  greatfulness, 

With  purpose  stern  and  true  as  Pleiades. 

He  lit  a  wondrous  light  in  darkened  ways, 

And  set  all  hearts  to  song  with  music  sweet, 

As  when  soft,  summer  rain  within  the  wood 

Sets  tender  leaves  to  whispering.      Grand  Lincoln 

heart — 
Great  Alcyone  of  men,  about  whom  turns 
The  universe  of  Brotherhood.    They  thought  thee  poor 
And  lonely  there  amid  the  knotted  rails  and  granite 

hills, 

98 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

When  lo,  the  skies  were  thine,  and  bright  Altair 

Thy  guiding  star!     The  sad  heart-cry 

For  liberty  thou  heardst  amid  the  din 

Of  greed  and  usury,  and  all  thy  soul  bore  down 

Unto  the  charge,  as  when  at  Heaven's  gate 

Great  Michael  thrust  old  Satan  forth. 

At  war's  Red  Sea  thy  people  stood  aghast, 

And  hearts  ebbed  low  in  face  of  that  wild  flood, 

'Til  thy  uplifted  hand  of  crystal  faith 

Prevailed  with  God  who  guides  the  Polar  sun. 

And  lo,  in  awed  retreat  the  cannoned  ranks 

Fell  'way,  and  o'er  the  wreckage  shone  a  path  sublime 

That  led  to  Peace  and  happy  Freedom's  land. 

No  greater  human  heart  e'er  beat  in  human  cause, 

Than  thine,  beloved  Lincoln,  whom  we  sing, 

As  morning  stars  arise  upon  the  clime 

Thy  fair  love  hath  embraced.    We  hear  thee  call 

From  sinless  heights,  and  pray  God  we  may  go 

As  sunward  ever  as  thy  feet  have  gone. 


WE  ARE  COMING,  FATHER 
ABRAHAM 

James  Shane  Gibbons 

We   are   coming,    Father   Abraham,    three   hundred 
thousand  more, 

From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and   from  New 
England's  shore ; 

We  leave  our  plows  and  workshops,  our  wives  and 
children  dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance  and  but  a  silent  tear, 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadily  before. 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more. 

99 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

We  are  coming,  coming,  coming;  we  are  coming, 

coming,  coming; 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 

thousand  more. 

If  you  look  across  the  hill-tops  that  meet  our  Northern 

sky, 
Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may 

descry ; 
And  now  the  wind  an  instant  tears  the  cloudy  veil 

aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory  and  in  pride, 
And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam  and  bands  brave 

music  pour — 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more. 
We  are  coming,  coming,  coming;  we  are  coming, 

coining,  coming; 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 

thousand  more. 

If  you  look  all  down  our  valleys,  where  the  growing 
harvests  shine, 

You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  falling  into 
line, 

And  children  at  their  mothers'  knees  are  pulling  at  the 
weeds, 

And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against  their  coun- 
try's needs, 

And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cottage 
door — 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more. 
We  are  coming,  coming,  coming;  we  are  coming, 

coming,  coming; 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 
thousand  more. 

ioo 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

You  have  called  us  and  we're  coming  by  Richmond's 
bloody  tide, 

To  lay  us  down  for  Freedom's  sake  our  brothers'  bones 
beside, 

Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  grasp  to  wrench  the 
murderous  blade, 

And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to  pa- 
rade; 

Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true  have  gone 
before — 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more. 
We  are  coming,  coming,  coming;  we  are  coming, 

coming,  coming; 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 
thousand  more. 


SONNET  IN  1862 
John  James  Piatt 

Stern  be  the  Pilot  in  the  dreadful  hour 
When  a  great  nation,  like  a  ship  at  sea 
With  the  wroth  breakers  whitening  at  her  lee, 

Feels  her  last  shudder  if  the  Helmsman  cower; 

A  godlike  manhood  be  his  mighty  dower ! 
Such  and  so  gifted,  Lincoln,  may'st  thou  be 
With  thy  high  wisdom's  low  simplicity 

And  awful  tenderness  of  voted  power: 

From  our  hot  records  then  thy  name  shall  stand 
On  Time's  calm  ledger  out  of  passionate  days- 

With  the  pure  debt  of  gratitude  begun, 
And  only  paid  in  never-ending  praise — 

One  of  the  many  of  a  mighty  Land, 

Made  by  God's  providence  the  Anointed  One. 

101 


AN  HORATIAN  ODE 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

Not  as  when  some  great  captain  falls 
In  battle,  where  his  country  calls, 

Beyond  the  struggling  lines 

That  push  his  dread  designs. 

To  doom,  by  some  stray  ball  struck  dead 
Or  in  the  last  charge,  at  the  head 

•Of  his  determined  men, 

iWho  must  be  victors  then ! 

Nor  as  when  sink  the  civic  great, 

The  safer  pillars  of  the  State, 
Whose  calm,  mature,  wise  words 
Suppress  the  need  of  swords ! — 

With  no  such  tears  as  e'er  were  shed 
Above  the  noblest  of  our  dead 

Do  we  to-day  deplore 

The  man  that  is  no  more ! 

Our  sorrow  hath  a  wider  scope, 
Too  strange  for  fear,  too  vast  for  hope,- 
A  wonder,  blind  and  dumb, 
That  waits — what  is  to  come ! 

Not  more  astonished  had  we  been 
If  madness,  that  dark  night,  unseen 
Had  in  our  chambers  crept, 
And  murdered  while  we  slept ! 


102 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

We  woke  to  find  a  mourning  earth — 
Our  Lares  shivered  on  the  hearth, — • 

To  roof-tree  fallen, — all 

That  could  affright,  appall ! 

Such  thunderbolts,  in  other  lands, 
Have  smitten  the  rod  from  royal  hands, 
But  spared,  with  us,  till  now 
Each  laureled  Caesar's  brow ! 

No  Caesar  he,  whom  we  lament, 
A  man  without  a  precedent, 

Sent  it  would  seem,  to  do 

His  work — and  perish  too ! 

Not  by  the  weary  cares  of  state, 

The  endless  tasks,  which  will  not  wait, 

Which,  often  done  in  vain, 

Must  yet  be  done  again : 

Not  in  the  dark  wild  tide  of  war, 
Which  rose  so  high,  and  rolled  so  far, 

Sweeping  from  sea  to  sea 

In  awful  anarchy : — 

Four  fateful  years  of  mortal  strife, 
Which  slowly  drained  the  nation's  life, 
(Yet  for  each  drop  that  ran 
There  sprang  an  armed  man!) 

Not  then; — but  when  by  measures  meet,- 

By  victory,  and  by  defeat, — 
By  courage,  patience,  skill, 
The  people's  fixed  "We  will!" 


103 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Had  pierced,  had  crushed  rebellion  dead, — 
Without  a  hand,  without  a  head : — 

At  last,  when  all  was  well, 

He  fell— O,  how  he  fell! 

The  time, — the  place, — the  stealing  shape,— 
The  coward  shot, — the  swift  escape, — 

The  wife, — the  widow's  scream, — 

It  is  a  hideous  dream! 

A  dream  ? — what  means  this  pageant  then  ? 
These  multitudes  of  solemn  men, 

Who  speak  not  when  they  meet, 

But  throng  the  silent  street  ? 

The  flags  half-mast,  that  late  so  high 
Flaunted  at  each  new  victory  ? 

(The  stars  no  brightness  shed, 

But  bloody  looks  the  red!) 

The  cannon's  sudden,  sullen  boom, — 
The  bells  that  toll  of  death  and  doom, — 

The  rolling  of  the  drums, — 

The  dreadful  car  that  comes? 

Cursed  be  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot ! 

The  frenzied  brain  that  hatched  the  plot ! 
Thy  country's  father  slain 
By  thee,  thou  worse  than  Cain ! 

Tyrants  have  fallen  by  such  as  thou, 
And  good  hath  followed — may  it  now ! 

(God  lets  bad  instruments 

Produce  the  best  events. ) 


104 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

But  he,  the  man  we  mourn  to-day, 
No  tyrant  was :  so  mild  a  sway 

In  one  such  weight  who  bore 

Was  never  known  before! 

Cool  should  he  be,  of  balanced  powers, 
The  ruler  of  a  race  like  ours, 

Impatient,  headstrong,  wild, — 

The  man  to  guide  the  child ! 

And  this  he  was,  who  most  unfit 
(So  hard  the  sense  of  God  to  hit!) 

Did  seem  to  fill  his  place. 

With  such  a  homely  face, — 

Such  rustic  manners, — speech  uncouth, — 
(That  somehow  blundered  out  the  truth!) 

Untried,  untrained  to  bear 

The  more  than  kingly  care ! 

Ay !    And  his  genius  put  to  scorn 
The  proudest  in  the  purple  born, 
Whose  wisdom  never  grew 
To  what,  untaught,  he  knew — 

The  people,  of  whom  he  was  one. 
No  gentleman  like  Washington, — 

(Whose  bones,  methinks,  make  room, 

To  have  him  in  their  tomb !) 

A  laboring  man,  with  horny  hands, 
tWho  swung  the  axe,  who  tilled  the  lands, 

Who  shrank  from  nothing  new, 

But  did  as  poor  men  do ! 


105 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

One  of  the  people !    Born  to  be 

Their  curious  epitome ; 
To  share,  yet  rise  above 
Their  shifting  hate  and  love. 

Common  his  mind  (it  seemed  so  then)1, 
His  thoughts  the  thoughts  of  other  men : 

Plain  were  his  words,  and  poor — 

But  now  they  will  endure ! 

No  hasty  fool,  of  stubborn  will, 
But  prudent,  cautious,  pliant,  still ; 

Who,  since  his  work  was  good, 

[Would  do  it,  as  he  could. 

Doubting,  was  not  ashamed  to  doubt, 
And,  lacking  prescience,  went  without : 
Often  appeared  to  halt, 
And  was,  of  course,  at  fault: 

Heard  all  opinions,  nothing  loth, 
And  loving  both  sides,  angered  both : 
Was — not  like  justice,  blind, 
But  watchful,  clement,  kind. 

No  hero,  this,  of  Roman  mold ; 
Nor  like  our  stately  sires  of  old : 

Perhaps  he  was  not  great — 

But  he  preserved  the  State ! 

O  honest  face,  which  all  men  knew! 
O  tender  heart,  but  known  to  few ! 

O  wonder  of  the  age, 

Cut  off  by  tragic  rage ! 

1 06 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Peace !    Let  the  long  procession  come, 
For  hark! — the  mournful,  muffled  drum- 

The  trumpet's  wail  afar, — 

And  see!  the  awful  car! 

Peace !    Let  the  sad  procession  go, 
iWhile  cannon  boom,  and  bells  toll  slow : 

And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 

Bearing  our  woe  afar! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 

To  honor  all  they  can 

The  dust  of  that  good  man ! 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain : 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave 

Attend  thee  to  the  grave ! 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars, 
Salute  him  once  again, 
Your  late  commander — slain ! 

Yes,  let  your  tears,  indignant,  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall : 

Your  country  needs  you  now 

Beside  the  forge,  the  plow ! 

(When  justice  shall  unsheathe  her  brand, 
If  mercy  may  not  stay  her  hand, 

Nor  would  we  have  it  so — 

She  must  direct  the  blow !) 


107 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  you,  amid  the  master-race, 
Who  seem  so  strangely  out  of  place, 
Know  ye  who  cometh  ?    He 
Who  hath  declared  ye  free ! 

Bow  while  the  body  passes — nay, 
Fall  on  your  knees,  and  weep,  and  pray ! 
Weep,  weep — I  would  ye  might — 
Your  poor,  black  faces  white ! 

And  children,  you  must  come  in  bands, 
With  garlands  in  your  little  hands, 

Of  blue,  and  white,  and  red, 

To  strew  before  the  dead ! 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 
The  fallen  to  his  last  repose  : 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 

But  in  his  modest  home ; 

The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best : 

There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 

And  there  his  bones  be  laid ! 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 

And  strangers  far  and  near, 

For  many  and  many  a  year ! 

For  many  a  year,  and  many  an  age, 
While  history  on  her  ample  page 

The  virtues  shall  enroll 

Of  that  paternal  soul ! 

1 08 


FROM  "OUR  HEROIC  THEMES" 

George  Henry  Boker 

Crown  we  our  heroes  with  a  holier  wreath 

Than  man  e'er  wore  upon  this  side  of  death ; 

Mix  with  their  laurels  deathless  asphodels, 

And  chime  their  peans  from  the  sacred  bells ! 

Nor  in  your  prayers  forget  the  martyred  Chief, 

Fallen  for  the  gospel  of  your  own  belief, 

Who,  ere  he  mounted  to  the  people's  throne, 

Asked  for  your  prayers,  and  joined  in  them  his  own. 

I  knew  the  man.    I  see  him,  as  he  stands 

With  gifts  of  mercy  in  his  outstretched  hands; 

A  kindly  light  within  his  gentle  eyes, 

Sad  as  the  toil  in  which  his  heart  grew  wise ; 

His  lips  half-parted  with  the  constant  smile 

That  kindled  truth,  but  foiled  the  deepest  guile; 

His  head  bent  forward,  and  his  willing  ear 

Divinely  patient  right  and  wrong  to  hear : 

Great  in  his  goodness,  humble  in  his  state, 

Firm  in  his  purpose,  yet  not  passionate, 

He  led  his  people  with  a  tender  hand, 

And  won  by  love  a  sway  beyond  command, 

Summoned  by  lot  to  mitigate  a  time 

Frenzied  with  rage,  unscrupulous  with  crime, 

He  bore  his  mission  with  so  meek  a  heart 

That  Heaven  itself  took  up  his  people's  part ; 

And  when  he  faltered,  helped  him  ere  he  fell, 

Eking  his  efforts  out  by  miracle. 

No  king  this  man,  by  grace  of  God's  intent; 

No,  something  better,  freeman, — President ! 

A  nature,  molded,  modeled  on  a  higher  plan, 

Lord  of  himself,  an  inborn  gentleman ! 


109 


WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE 
DOORYARD  BLOOMED 

Walt  Whitman 


When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloomed, 

And  the  great  star  early  drooped  in  the  western  sky  in 

the  night, 
I  mourned,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning 

spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 
Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star  in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

II 

O  powerful  western  fallen  star! 

O  shades  of  night — O  moody,  tearful  night! 

O  great   star   disappeared — O   the   black   murk  that 

hides  the  star! 
O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless — O  helpless 

soul  of  me! 
O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my  soul. 

hi 

In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house  near  the 
white-washed  palings, 

Stands  the  lilac-bush  tall-growing  with  the  heart- 
shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 

With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with  the 
perfume  strong  I  love, 


no 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

With  every  leaf  a  miracle — and  from  this  bush  in  the 

dooryard, 
With  delicate-colored  blossoms  and  heart-shaped  leaves 

of  rich  green, 
A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 


IV 

In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 
A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 
Solitary  the  thrush, 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settle- 
ments, 
Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life  (for  well,  dear  brother,  I 

know, 
If  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would ''st  surely 

die). 


Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 
Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  the 

violets  peeped  from  the  ground,  spotting  the 

gray  debris, 
Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes, 

passing  the  endless  grass, 
Passing  the  yellow-speared  wheat,  every  grain  from  its 

shroud  in  the  dark-brown  fields  uprisen, 
Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the 

orchards, 
Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 

ill 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

VI 

Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 

Through  day  and  night  with  the  great  cloud  darkening 

the  land, 
With  the  pomp  of  the  inlooped  flags  with  the  cities 

draped  in  black, 
With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crape- 
veiled  women  standing, 
With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaus 

of  the  night, 
With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of 

faces  and  the  unbared  heads, 
With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the 

somber  faces, 
With  the  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand 

voices  rising  strong  and  solemn, 
With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges  poured 

around  the  coffin, 
The  dim-lit  churches  and   the  shuddering  organs — 

where  amid  these  you  journey, 
With  the  tolling,  tolling  bell's  perpetual  clang, 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 
(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone, 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring, 
For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  song 

for  you,  O  sane  and  sacred  death. 

All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies, 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 

Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes, 

With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you, 

For  you  and  the  coffins,  all  of  you,  O  death!)' 


112 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

VIII 

O  western  orb  sailing  the  heaven, 

Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as  a  month 

since  I  walked, 
As  I  walked  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 
As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell  as  you  bent  to  me 

night  after  night, 
As  you  dropped  from  the  sky  low  down  as  if  to  my 

side,  (while  the  other  stars  all  looked  on,) 
As  we  wandered  together  the  solemn  night,  ( for  some- 
thing I  know  not  what  kept  me  from  sleep, ) 
As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the 

west  how  full  you  were  of  woe, 
As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  breeze  in  the 

cool  transparent  night, 
As  I  watched  where  you  passed  and  was  lost  in  the 

netherward  black  of  the  night, 
As  my  soul  in  its  trouble  dissatisfied  sank,  as  where 

you  sad  orb, 
Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone. 

IX 

Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp, 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender,  I  hear  your  notes,  I  hear 

your  call, 

1  hear,  I  come  presently,  I  understand  you, 

But  a  moment  I  linger,  for  the  lustrous  star  has  de- 
tained me, 
The  star  my  departing  comrade  holds  and  detains  me. 

x 

O  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I 

loved  ? 
And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet 

soul  that  has  gone? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him 

I  love? 

113 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Sea-winds  blown  from  east  and  west, 
Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from  the  West- 
ern sea,  till  there  on  the  prairies  meeting, 
These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 
I'll  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

XI 

O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls? 

And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on  the 
walls, 

To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love? 

Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and  homes, 

With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown,  and  the  gray- 
smoke  lucid  and  bright, 

With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous,  indo- 
lent, sinking  sun,  burning,  expanding  the  air, 

With  the  fresh  sweet  herbage  under  foot,  and  the  pale 
green  leaves  of  the  trees  prolific, 

In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the 
river,  with  a  wind-dapple  here  and  there, 

With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many  a  line 
against  the  sky,  and  shadows, 

And  the  city  at  hand  with  dwellings  so  dense,  and 
stacks  of  chimneys, 

And  all  the  scenes  of  life  and  the  workshops,  and  the 
workmen  homeward  returning. 

XII 

Lo,  body  and  soul — this  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and 
hurrying  tides,  and  the  ships, 

The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North 
in  the  light,  Ohio's  shores  and  flashing  Mis- 
souri, 

And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  covered  with  grass 
and  corn. 

114 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Lo,  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty, 
The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just- felt  breezes, 
The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light, 
The  miracle  spreading  bathing  all,  the  fulfilled  noon, 
The  coming  eve  delicious,  the  welcome  night  and  the 

stars, 
Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

XIII 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  you  gray-brown  bird, 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses,  pour  your  chant 

from  the  bushes, 
Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 

Sing  on,  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song, 

Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

O  liquid  and  free  and  tender! 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul — O  wondrous  singer! 

You  only  I  hear — yet  the  star  holds  me,  (but  will  soon 

depart,) 
Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odor  holds  me. 

XIV 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day  and  looked  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and  the  fields  of 

spring,  and  the  farmers  preparing  their  crops, 
In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land  with  its 

lakes  and  forests, 
In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty,    (after  the  perturbed 

winds  and  the  storms,) 
Under  the  arching  heavens   of  the  afternoon   swift 

passing,  and  the  voices  of  women  and  children, 
The  many  moving  sea-tides,  and  I  saw  the  ships  how 

they  sailed, 

US 


THE    PRAISE   OF    LINCOLN 

And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the 
fields  all  busy  with  labor, 

And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went  on, 
each  with  its  meals  and  minutia  of  daily  usages, 

And  the  streets  how  their  throbbings  throbbed,  and  the 
cities  pent — lo,  then  and  there, 

Falling  upon  them  all,  and  among  them  all,  enveloping 
me  with  the  rest, 

Appeared  the  cloud,  appeared  the  long,  black  trail, 

And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowl- 
edge of  death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side 
of  me, 

And  the  thought  of  death  close- walking  the  other  side 
of  me, 

And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions,  and  as  hold- 
ing the  hands  of  companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night  that  talks  not, 

Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the 
swamp  in  the  dimness, 

To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  the  ghostly  pines 
so  still. 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  received  me, 

The  gray-brown  bird  I  know  received  us  comrades 

three, 
And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for  him  I 

loved. 

From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  still, 

Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades  in  the 

night, 
And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 

116 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undidate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curl- 

oas, 
And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise!  praise!  praise! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 
Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  wel- 
come? 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 
I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come, 
come  unfalteringly. 

Approach  strong  delivcress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I  joyously 

sing  the  dead, 
Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose  saluting  thee,  adornments 
and  f eastings  for  thee, 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high- 
spread  sky  are  fitting, 

And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful 
night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  whose 

voice  I  know, 
And  the  soul  turning  to  thee,  0  vast  and  well-veiled 

death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

117 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad 

fields  and  the  prairies  wide, 
Over   the   dense-packed    cities   all    and   the    teeming 

wharves  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee,  O  death. 

xv 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 

With  pure  deliberate  notes  spreading  filling  the  night. 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp-perfume, 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed, 
As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions. 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags, 

Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierced 

with  missiles  I  saw  them, 
And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and 

torn  and  bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs,  (and  all 

in  silence,) 
And  the  staffs  all  splintered  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them, 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers  of 

the  war, 
But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought, 
They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffered  not, 
The  living  remained  and  suffered,  the  mother  suffered, 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade 

suffered, 
And  the  armies  that  remained  suffered. 

118 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

XVI 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night, 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands, 

Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying 
song  of  my  soul, 

Victorious  song,  death's  outlet  song,  yet  varying  ever- 
altering  song, 

As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and 
falling,  flooding  the  night, 

Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warning, 
and  yet  again  bursting  with  joy, 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of  the  heav- 
ens, 

As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from  re- 
cesses, 

Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac  with  heart-shaped  leaves, 

I  leave  thee  there  in  the  dooryard,  blooming,  returning 
with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee, 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the  west, 

communing  with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out  of  the 

night, 
The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown  bird, 
And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  aroused  in  my  soul, 
With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star  with  the  counte- 
nance full  of  woe, 
With  the  holders  holding  my  hand  nearing  the  call  of 

the  bird, 
Comrades  mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory 
ever  to  keep,  for  the  dead  I  loved  so  well, 


119 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  clays  and  lands 

— and  this  for  his  dear  sake, 
Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my 

soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and 

dim. 


ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  BIRTH  OF 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Levi  Leztis  Hager 

(February  12th,  1900) 

This  day,  upon  the  scroll  of  fame, 
We  venerate  anew  his  name 
Who  healed  the  wound  by  brothers  made, 
When  hostile  armies  did  invade. 

He  fell  a  martyr  for  his  land, 
Struck  down  by  the  assassin's  hand ; 
But  rose  immortal,  like  the  star 
Which  sends  its  radiance  from  afar. 

His  praises  for  the  jubilee 
Which  did  a  race  from  bondage  free, 
Will  from  that  people  ever  rise, 
Like  holy  incense,  to  the  skies. 

The  nation  great,  united  now, 

With  heads  and  hearts  do  grateful  bow 

To  do  him  homage — let  it  be 

The  tribute  of  his  country,  free. 


120 


ACCOMPLICES 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
(Virginia,  1865) 

The  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves 
By  the  Potomac ;  and  the  crisp  ground-flower 
Lifts  its  blue  cup  to  catch  the  passing  shower ; 

The  pine-cone  ripens,  and  the  long  moss  waves 

Its  tangled  gonfalons  above  our  braves. 

Hark,  what  a  burst  of  music  from  yon  wood! 
The  Southern  nightingale,  above  its  brood, 

In  its  melodious  summer  madness  raves. 

Ah,  with  what  delicate  touches  of  her  hand, 
With  what  sweet  voices,  Nature  seeks  to  screen 

The  awful  Crime  of  this  distracted  land, — 

Sets  her  birds  singing,  while  she  spreads  her  green 

Mantle  of  velvet  where  the  Murdered  lie, 

As  if  to  hide  the  horror  from  God's  eye! 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

Mary  A.  Leavitt 

From  the  tints  and  the  tones  of  other  years, 
From  the  bloom  of  the  Far  Away, 

What  chaplets  grateful  Memory  weaves 
On  this  anniversary  day ! 

How  we  hear  the  tramp  of  marching  feet 
And  the  call  of  the  bugle  blast ; 

And  the  glad  acclaim  as  the  troops  come  home, 
When  the  terrible  war  is  past ! 
121 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

In  the  midst  of  joy,  we  hear  the  toll — 

The  toll  of  a  funeral  bell ! 
From  around  the  globe  comes  a  wail  of  woe 

That  blends  in  one  funeral  knell ! 

Joy  is  struck  dead  by  a  crushing  blow! 

The  nation's  deliverer  slain ! 
No  wonder  each  heart  is  whelmed  in  grief 

And  each  wind  bears  a  sob  of  pain ! 

Hallow  his  tomb,  O  Illinois ! 

Still  sacred  keep  that  shrine 
Where  love  would  twine  immortal  wreaths, 

And  blend  her  gifts  with  thine. 

O  peerless  Leader!  but  prized  too  late! 

Strange  tear-dimmed  eyes  now  see  it  all ! 
Abused  by  foes,  misknown  by  friends — 

Too  late,  too  late,  our  praises  fall ! 


LINCOLN'S  BIRTHDAY 

Ida  Vose  Woodbury 

Again  thy  birthday  dawns,  O  man  beloved, 

Dawns  on  the  land  thy  blood  was  shed  to  save, 

And  hearts  of  millions,  by  one  impulse  moved, 
Bow  and  fresh  laurels  lay  upon  thy  grave. 

The  years  but  add  new  luster  to  thy  glory, 
And  watchmen  on  the  heights  of  vision  see 

Reflected  in  thy  life  the  old,  old  story, 
The  story  of  the  Man  of  Galilee. 

122 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

We  see  in  thee  the  image  of  Him  kneeling 
Before  the  close-shut  tomb,  and  at  the  word 

"Come  forth,"  from  out  the  blackness  long  concealing 
There  rose  a  man ;  clearly  again  was  heard 

The  Master's  voice,  and  then,  his  cerements  broken, 
Friends  of  the  dead  a  living  brother  see  ; 

Thou,  at  the  tomb  where  millions  lay,  hast  spoken : 
"Loose  him  and  let  him  go !" — the  slave  was  free. 

And  in  the  man  so  long  in  thraldom  hidden 
We  see  the  likeness  of  the  Father's  face, 

Clod  changed  to  soul ;  by  thy  atonement  bidden, 
We  hasten  to  the  uplift  of  a  race. 

Spirit  of  Lincoln !  Summon  all  thy  loyal ; 

Nerve  them  to  follow  where  thy  feet  have  trod, 
To  prove,  by  voice  as  clear  and  deed  as  royal, 

Man's  brotherhood  in  our  one  Father — God. 


LINCOLN'S  BIRTHDAY 

Nathan  Haskell  Dole 
(February  12th,  1809) 

As  back  we  look  across  the  ages 
A  few  great  figures  meet  the  eye — 

Kings,  prophets,  warriors,  poets,  sages — 
Whose  names  and  deeds  will  never  die. 

The  rest  are  all  forgotten,  perished, 
Like  trees  in  trackless  forests  vast, 

But  those  whose  memory  men  have  cherished 
Seem  living  still  and  have  no  past. 
123 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Not  always  of  high  race  or  royal 
These  messengers  of  God  to  men, 

But  lowly-born,  true-hearted,  loyal, 
They  wielded  sword  or  brush  or  pen. 

Such  was  our  Lincoln,  who  forever 

Is  hailed  as  Freer  of  the  Slave, 
iWhose  lofty  purpose  and  endeavor 

New  hope  to  hopeless  bondmen  gave. 

Gaunt,  hewed  as  if  from  rugged  boulders, 
He  bore  a  world  of  care  and  woe, 

Which  creased  his  brow  and  bent  his  shoulders, 
And  as  a  martyr  laid  him  low. 

And  so  we  tell  our  sons  his  story, 

We  celebrate  his  humble  birth, 
And  crown  his  deeds  with  all  the  glory 

That  men  can  offer  on  this  earth. 

Hail,  Lincoln!  As  the  swift  years  lengthen 
Still  more  majestic  grows  thy  fame; 

The  ties  that  bind  us  to  thee  strengthen ; 
Starlike-immortal  shines  thy  name. 


ON  READING 
PRESIDENT  LINCOLN'S  LETTER 

H.  L.  Gordon 

(Written  to  Horace  Greeley,  of  Date  August  22d,  1862:     "If  I 

could  save  the  union  without  freeing  any  slave, 

I  would  do  it,"  etc.) 

Perish  the  power  that,  bowed  to  dust, 

Still  wields  a  tyrant's  rod — 
That  dares  not  even  then  be  just, 

And  leave  the  rest  with  God. 
124 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Henry  Howard  Brownell 

Dead  is  the  roll  of  the  drums, 
And  the  distant  thunders  die, 
They  fade  in  the  far-off  sky ; 

And  a  lovely  summer  comes, 
Like  the  smile  of  Him  on  high. 

Lulled,  the  storm  and  the  onset, 
Earth  lies  in  a  sunny  swoon; 
Stiller  splendor  of  noon, 

Softer  glory  of  sunset, 

Milder  starlight  and  moon ! 

For  the  kindly  Seasons  love  us ; 

They  smile  over  trench  and  clod 
(Where  we  left  the  bravest  of  us,) — 

There's  a  brighter  green  of  the  sod, 
And  a  holier  calm  above  us 

In  the  blessed  Blue  of  God. 

The  roar  and  the  ravage  were  vain ; 
And  Nature,  that  never  yields, 

Is  busy  with  sun  and  rain 
At  her  old  sweet  work  again 
On  the  lonely  battle-fields. 

How  the  tall  white  daisies  grow, 
Where  the  grim  artillery  rolled ! 

(Was  it  only  a  moon  ago? 
It  seems  a  century  old,) — 

*2$ 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  the  bee  hums  in  the  clover, 
As  the  pleasant  June  comes  on ; 

Aye,  the  wars  are  all  over, — 
But  our  good  Father  is  gone. 

There  was  tumbling  of  traitor  fort, 

Flaming  of  traitor  fleet — 
Lighting  of  city  and  port, 

Clasping  in  square  and  street. 

There  was  thunder  of  mine  and  gun, 

Cheering  by  mast  and  tent, — 
When — his  dread  work  all  done, 
And  his  high  fame  full  won — 
Died  the  Good  President. 

In  his  quiet  chair  he  sate, 

Pure  of  malice  or  guile, 
Stainless  of  fear  or  hate, — 

And  there  played  a  pleasant  smile 
On  the  rough  and  careworn  face; 

For  his  heart  was  all  the  while 
On  means  of  mercy  and  grace. 

The  brave  old  Flag  drooped  o'er  him, 
(A  fold  in  the  hard  hand  lay,) — 
He  looked,  perchance,  on  the  play, — 

But  the  scene  was  a  shadow  before  him, 
For  his  thoughts  were  far  away. 

'Twas  but  the  morn,  (yon  fearful 
Death-shade,  gloomy  and  vast, 
Lifting  slowly  at  last,) 
His  household  heard  him  say, 

'Tis  long  since  I've  been  so  cheerful, 
So  light  of  heart  as  to-day." 

126 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

'Twas  dying,  the  long  dread  clang, — 

But,  or  ever  the  blessed  ray 

Of  peace  could  brighten  to-day, 

Murder  stood  by  the  way — 
Treason  struck  home  his  fang ! 
One  throb — and,  without  a  pang, 

That  pure  soul  passed  away. 

Kindly  Spirit! — Ah,  when  did  treason 

Bid  such  a  generous  nature  cease, 
Mild  by  temper  and  strong  by  reason, 

But  ever  leaning  to  love  and  peace  ? 
A  head  how  sober ;  a  heart  how  spacious ; 

A  manner  equal  with  high  or  low ; 
Rough  but  gentle,  uncouth  but  gracious, 

And  still  inclining  to  lips  of  woe. 

Patient  when  saddest,  calm  when  sternest, 
Grieved  when  rigid  for  justice'  sake ; 

Given  to  jest,  yet  ever  in  earnest 

If  aught  of  right  or  truth  were  at  stake. 

Simple  of  heart,  yet  shrewd  therewith, 
Slow  to  resolve,  but  firm  to  hold ; 

Still  with  parable  and  with  myth 
Seasoning  truth,  like  Them  of  old ; 

Aptest  humor  and  quaintest  pith ! 

(Still  we  smile  o'er  the  tales  he  told.)" 

Yet  whoso  might  pierce  the  guise 
Of  mirth  in  the  man  we  mourn, 

Would  mark,  and  with  grieved  surprise, 
All  the  great  soul  had  borne, 

In  the  piteous  lines,  and  the  kind,  sad  eyes 
So  dreadfully  wearied  and  worn. 

127 


THE    PRAISE   OF    LINCOLN 

And  we  trusted  (the  last  dread  page 

Once  turned,  of  our  Dooms-day  Scroll,) 
To  have  seen  him,  sunny  of  soul, 

In  a  cheery,  grand  old  age. 

But,  Father,  'tis  well  with  thee! 

And  since  ever,  when  God  draws  nigh, 
Some  grief  for  the  mood  must  be, 

'Twas  well,  even  so  to  die, — 

'Mid  the  thunder  of  Treason's  fall, 
The  yielding  of  haughty  town, 

The  crashing  of  cruel  wall, 

The  trembling  of  tyrant  crown! 

The  ringing  of  hearth  and  pavement 
To  the  clash  of  falling  chains, — 

The  centuries  of  enslavement 
Dead,  with  their  blood-bought  gains ! 

And  through  trouble  weary  and  long, 
Well  hadst  thou  seen  the  way, 

Leaving  the  State  so  strong 
It  did  not  reel  for  a  day; 

And  even  in  death  couldst  give 
A  token  for  Freedom's  strife — 

A  proof  how  republics  live, 
And  not  by  a  single  life, 

But  the  Right  Divine  of  man, 

And  the  many,  trained  to  be  free, — 

And  none,  since  the  world  began, 
Ever  was  mourned  like  thee. 

128 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Dost  thou  feel  it,  O  noble  Heart ! 

(So  grieved  and  so  wronged  below,)] 
From  the  rest  wherein  thou  art  ? 
Do  they  see  it,  those  patient  eyes  ? 
Is  there  heed  in  the  happy  skies 

For  tokens  of  world-wide  woe? 

The  Land's  great  lamentations, 
The  mighty  mourning  of  cannon, 
The  myriad  flags  half-mast — 
The  last  remorse  of  the  nations, 
Grief  from  Volga  to  Shannon! 
(Now  they  know  thee  at  last.) 

How,  from  gray  Niagara's  shore 
To  Canaveral's  surfy  shoal — 

From  the  rough  Atlantic  roar 
To  the  long  Pacific  roll — 
For  bereavement  and  for  dole, 

Every  cottage  wears  its  weed, 
White  as  thine  own  pure  soul, — ■> 

And  black  as  the  traitor  deed. 

How,  under  a  nation's  pall, 
The  dust  so  dear  in  our  sight 
To  its  home  on  the  prairie  past, — 
The  leagues  of  funeral, 

The  myriads,  morn  and  night, 
Pressing  to  look  their  last. 

Nor  alone  the  State's  Eclipse; 

But  tears  in  hard  eyes  gather — 
And  on  rough  and  bearded  lips, 
Of  the  regiments  and  the  ships — 
"Oh,  our  dear  Father!" 

129 


THE   PRAISE   OE   LINCOLN 

And  melhinks  of  all  the  million 

That  looked  on  the  dark  dead  face, 
'Neath  its  sable-plumed  pavilion, 

The  crone  of  a  humbler  race 
Is  saddest  of  all  to  think  on, 

And  the  old  swart  lips  that  said, 
Sobbing,  "Abraham  Lincoln ! 

Oh,  he  is  dead,  he  is  dead!" 

Hush !  let  our  heavy  souls 

To-day  be  glad ;  for  again 
The  stormy  music  swells  and  rolls, 

Stirring  the  hearts  of  men. 

And  under  the  Nation's  Dome, 
They've  guarded  so  well  and  long, 

Our  boys  come  marching  home, 
Two  hundred  thousand  strong. 

All  in  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
With  war-worn  colors  and  drums, 

Still  through  the  livelong  summer's  clay, 
Regiment,  regiment  comes. 

Like  the  tide,  yeasty  and  barmy, 
That  sets  on  a  wild  lee-shore, 

Surge  the  ranks  of  an  army 
Never  reviewed  before ! 

Who  shall  look  on  the  like  again, 
Or  see  such  host  of  the  brave? 

A  mighty  River  of  marching  men 
Rolls  the  Capital  through — 

Rank  on  rank,  and  wave  on  wave, 
Of  bayonet-crested  blue! 

130 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

How  the  chargers  neigh  and  champ, 
(Their  riders  weary  of  camp), 

With  curvet  and  with  caracole ! — 
The  cavalry  comes  with  thund'rous  tramp, 

And  the  cannons  heavily  roll. 

And  ever,  flowery  and  gay, 
The  Staff  sweeps  on  in  a  spray 

Of  tossing  forelocks  and  manes; 
But  each  bridle-arm  has  a  weed 
Of  funeral,  black  as  the  steed 

That  fiery  Sheridan  reina. 

Grandest  of  mortal  sights 

The  sun-browned  ranks  to  view-^— 
The  Colors  ragg'd  in  a  hundred  fights, 

And  the  dusty  Frocks  of  Blue! 

And  all  day,  mile  on  mile, 

With  cheer,  and  waving,  and  smile, 

The  war-worn  legions  defile 

Where  the  nation's  noblest  stand ; 
And  the  Great  Lieutenant  looks  on, 

With  the  Flower  of  a  rescued  land, — 
For  the  terrible  work  is  done, 
And  the  Good  Fight  is  won 

For  God  and  the  Fatherland. 

So,  from  the  fields  they  win, 
Our  men  are  marching  home, 
A  million  are  marching  home ! 

To  the  cannon's  thundering  din, 
And  banners  on  mast  and  dome,— 

And  the  ships  come  sailing  in 

With  all  their  ensigns  dight, 

As  erst  for  a  great  sea-fight. 

131 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Let  every  color  fly, 

Every  pennon  flaunt  in  pride; 
Wave,  Starry  Flag,  on  high ! 
Float  in  the  sunny  sky, 

Stream  o'er  the  stormy  tide ! 
For  every  stripe  of  stainless  hue, 
And  every  star  in  the  field  of  blue, 
Ten  thousand  of  the  brave  and  true 

Have  laid  them  down  and  died. 

And  in  all  our  pride  to-day 
We  think,  with  a  tender  pain, 

Of  those  so  far  away 
They  will  not  come  home  again. 

And  our  boys  had  fondly  thought, 

To-day,  in  marching  by, 
From  the  ground  so  dearly  bought, 
And  the  fields  so  bravely  fought, 

To  have  met  their  Father's  eye. 

But  they  may  not  see  him  in  place, 
Nor  their  ranks  be  seen  of  him; 

We  look  for  the  well-known  face, 
And  the  splendor  is  strangely  dim. 

Perished  ? — who  was  it  said 
Our  Leader  had  passed  away? 

Dead  ?    Our  President  dead  ? 
He  has  not  died  for  a  day ! 

We  mourn  for  a  little  breath 

Such  as,  late  or  soon,  dust  yields ; 

But  the  Dark  Flower  of  Death 
Blooms  in  the  fadeless  fields. 

132 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

We  looked  on  a  cold,  still  brow, 
But  Lincoln  could  yet  survive ; 
He  never  was  more  alive, 

Never  nearer  than  now. 

For  the  pleasant  season  found  him, 
Guarded  by  faithful  hands, 
In  the  fairest  of  Summer  Lands; 

With  his  own  brave  staff  around  him, 
There  our  President  stands. 

There  they  are  all  at  his  side, 
The  noble  hearts  and  true, 
That  did  all  men  might  do — 

Then  slept,  with  their  swords,  and  died. 

And  around — (for  there  can  cease 
This  earthly  trouble) — they  throng, 

The  friends  that  have  passed  in  peace, 
The  foes  that  have  seen  their  wrong. 

(But,  a  little  from  the  rest, 
With  sad  eyes  looking  down, 
And  brows  of  softened  frown, 

With  stern  anus  on  the  chest, 

Are  two,  standing  abreast — 

Stonewall  and  Old  John  Brown.) 

But  the  stainless  and  the  true, 
These  by  their  President  stand, 

To  look  on  his  last  review, 

Or  march  with  the  old  command. 

And  lo!  from  a  thousand  fields, 
From  all  the  old  battle-haunts, 

A  greater  Army  than  Sherman  wields, 
A  grander  Review  than  Grant's. 

133 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Gathered  home  from  the  grave, 
Risen  from  sun  and  rain — 

Rescued  from  wind  and  wave 
Out  of  the  stormy  main — 

The  Legions  of  our  Brave 
Are  all  in  their  lines  again ! 

Many  a  stout  Corps  that  went, 
Full-ranked,  from  camp  and  tent, 

And  brought  back  a  brigade ; 
Many  a  brave  regiment, 

That  mustered  only  a  squad. 

The  lost  battalions, 

That,  when  the  fight  went  wrong, 
Stood  and  died  at  their  guns, — 

The  stormers  steady  and  strong, 

iVVith  their  best  blood  that  bought 
Scarp,  and  ravelin,  and  wall, — 

The  companies  that  fought 

Till  a  corporal's  guard  was  all. 

Many  a  valiant  crew, 

That  passed  in  battle  and  wreck, — 
Ah,  so  faithful  and  true ! 

They  died  on  the  bloody  deck, 
They  sank  in  the  soundless  blue. 

All  the  loyal  and  bold 

That  lay  on  a  soldier's  bier, — 
The  stretchers  borne  to  the  rear, 

The  hammocks  lowered  to  the  hold. 

The  shattered  wreck  we  hurried, 
In  death-fight,  from  deck  and  port,- 

The  Blacks  that  Wagner  buried — ■ 
That  died  in  the  Bloody  Fort ! 

134 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Comrades  of  camp  and  mess, 

Left,  as  they  lay,  to  die, 
In  the  battle's  sorest  stress, 

When  the  storm  of  fight  swept  by,—* 
They  lay  in  the  Wilderness, 

Ah,  where  did  they  not  lie? 

In  the  tangled  swamp  they  lay, 
They  lay  so  still  on  the  sward ! — 

They  rolled  in  the  sick-bay, 

Moaning  their  lives  away — 

They  flushed  in  the  fevered  ward. 

They  rotted  in  Libby  yonder, 

They  starved  in  the  foul  stockade — 

Hearing  afar  the  thunder 
Of  the  Union  cannonade! 

But  the  old  wounds  all  are  healed, 
And  the  dungeoned  limbs  are  free, — 

The  Blue  Frocks  rise  from  the  field, 
The  Blue  Jackets  out  of  the  sea. 

They've  'scaped  from  the  torture-den, 
They've  broken  the  bloody  sod, 

They've  all  come  to  life  again! — 

The  Third  of  a  Million  men 
That  died  for  Thee  and  God ! 

A  tenderer  green  than  May 
The  Eternal  Season  wears, — 

The  blue  of  our  summer's  day 
Is  dim  and  pallid  to  theirs, — 

The  Horror  faded  away, 
And  'twas  heaven  all  unawares ! 

135 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Tents  on  the  Infinite  Shore! 

Flags  in  the  azuline  sky, 
Sails  on  the  seas  once  more ! 

To-day,  in  the  heaven  on  high, 
All  under  arms  once  more ! 

The  troops  are  all  in  their  lines, 
The  guidons  flutter  and  play ; 

But  every  bayonet  shines, 
For  all  must  march  to-day. 

What  lofty  pennons  flaunt? 
What  mighty  echoes  haunt, 

As  of  great  guns,  o'er  the  main  ? 

Hark  to  the  sound  again — 
The  Congress  is  all  a-taunt! 

The  Cumberland's  manned  again! 

All  the  ships  and  their  men 
Are  in  line  of  battle  to-day, — 

All  at  quarters,  as  when 

Their  last  roll  thundered  away, — » 

All  at  their  guns,  as  then, 
For  the  Fleet  salutes  to-day. 

The  armies  have  broken  camp 
On  the  vast  and  sunny  plain, 
The  drums  are  rolling  again ; 

With  steady,  measured  tramp, 
They're  marching  all  again. 

With  alignment  firm  and  solemn, 

Once  again  they  form 
In  mighty  square  and  column, — 

But  never  for  charge  and  storm. 

136 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

The  Old  Flag  they  died  under 
Floats  above  them  on  the  shore, 

And  on  the  great  ships  yonder 
The  ensigns  dip  once  more — 

And  once  again  the  thunder 
Of  the  thirty  guns  and  four ! 

In  solid  platoons  of  steel, 

Under  heaven's  triumphal  arch, 

The  long  lines  break  and  wheel — 
And  the  word  is,  "Forward,  march  I** 

The  Colors  ripple  o'erhead, 
The  drums  roll  up  to  the  sky, 

And  with  martial  time  and  tread 
The  regiments  all  pass  by — 

The  ranks  of  our  faithful  Dead, 
Meeting  their  President's  eye. 

With  a  soldier's  quiet  pride 

They  smile  o'er  the  perished  pain, 
For  their  anguish  was  not  vain — 

For  thee,  O  Father,  we  died ! 
And  we  did  not  die  in  vain. 

March  on,  your  last  brave  mile ! 

Salute  him,  Star  and  Lace, 
Form  round  him,  rank  and  file, 

And  look  on  the  kind,  rough  face ; 
But  the  quaint  and  homely  smile 

Has  a  glory  and  a  grace 
It  never  had  known  erewhile — 

Never,  in  time  and  space. 


137 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Close  round  him,  hearts  of  pride! 
Press  near  him,  side  by  side, — 

Our  Father  is  not  alone ! 
For  the  Holy  Right  ye  died, 
And  Christ,  the  Crucified, 

Waits  to  welcome  His  own. 


FATHER  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Edzvard  William  Thomson 

My  private  shrine.   The  Gettysburg  Address 
Framed  in  with  all  authentic  photographs 
Of  him  from  whom  the  Neiv  Religion  flows. 

Homely?  That's  it.  A  perfect  homeliness. 
Homely  as  Home  itself  that  countenance 
Benign,  immortal  sweet,  his  very  soul, 
The  steadfast,  common,  great  American. 

It  is  a  gladness  in  my  aging  heart 
These  eyes  three  times  beheld  himself  alive, 
Ungainly,  jointed  loose,  rail-fence -like,  queer 
In  garb  that  hung  with  scarecrow  shapelessness — 
Absolute  figure  of  The  States  half -made, 
Turning  from  toil  and  joke  to  sacred  war. 


My  heart  has  smiles  and  tears,  remembering  how 
The  boy,  fourteen,  round-cheeked  and  downy-lipped, 
With  Philadelphia  cheese-cake  freshly  bit, 
Halted  to  stare  on  marbled  Chestnut  Street; 
He  could  not  gulp  the  richness  in  his  maw, 
Because  that  black-frock-coated  countryman 

138 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Of  bulged  umbrella,  rusty  stovepipe  hat, 
Five  yards  ahead,  and  coming  rapidly, 
Could  be  none  other  than  the  President, 
From  caricatures  familiar  as  the  day. 

A  sudden  twinkle  lit  his  downcast  eyes, 
Marking  the  cheese-cake  and  the  staring  boy; 
Tickled  to  note  the  checked  gastronomy, 
Passing,  he  asked,  "Good,  sonny  ?"  in  a  tone 
Applausive  more  than  questioning,  full  of  fun, 
Yet  half-embracive,  as  your  mother's  voice, 
And  smiled  so  comrade-like  the  wondering  lad 
Glowed  with  a  sense  of  being  chosen  chum 
To  Father  Abraham  Lincoln,  President. 

Such  was  the  miracle  his  spirit  wrought 

In  millions  while  he  lived.    And  still  it  lives. 

He  stalked  along,  unguarded,  all  alone, 

That  central  soul  of  unremitting  war, 

A  common  man  level  with  common  Man. 

The  heart-warmed,  wondering  boy  stared  after  him, 

And  wonders  yet  to-day  on  how  it  chanced 

The  mighty,  well-loved,  martyr  President 

Went  rambling  on  unknown  in  broadest  day 

On  crowded  street,  as  if  by  nimbus  hid 

From  all  except  the  cheese-caked  worshiper 

He  sonnied,  smiled  on,  joked  at  fatherly. 

II 

That  night  the  streets  of  Philadelphia  thronged ; 

No  end  of  faces ;  one  great  human  cross, 

As  far  each  way  as  lamp-post  boys  could  see. 

Packed  Ninth  and  Chestnut,  waiting  Father  Abe ; 

The  Continental's  balcony  on  high 

Flowed  Stars  and  Stripes,  with  crape  for  all  the  dead 

"We  can  not  dedicate,  nor  consecrate." 

139 


THE   PRAISE   OE   LINCOLN 

On  chime  of  eight  precise,  gaunt,  bare  of  head, 
They  saw  his  tallness  in  the  balcony-flare, 
And  straightway  all  the  murmurous  street  grew  still, 
Till  silence  absolute  as  death  befell. 

And  in  that  perfect  silence  one  clear  voice 
Inspired  began,  from  out  the  multiude, 
The  song  of  all  the  songs  of  all  the  war, 
Simple,  ecstatic,  sacrificial,  strong — 
"We're  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more'' — 
And  neighboring  voices  took  the  long  refrain 
While  some  more  distant  raised  the  opening  words, 
Till  to  and  fro  and  far  and  near  at  once, 
Never  in  chorus,  chanting  as  by  groups, 
Here  ending,  there  beginning,  some  halfway, 
All  sang  at  once,  and  all  renewing  all 
In  pledge  and  passion  of  the  mighty  song, 
Their  different  words  and  clashing  cadences 
Wondrously  merging  in  a  sound  supreme, 
As  if  the  inmost  meaning  of  the  hymn 
Harmonious  rolled  in  one  unending  vow 
While  all  the  singers  gazed  on  Lincoln's  face. 

Hands  gripping  balcony-rail,  he  stooped  and  saw 
And  listened  motionless,  with  such  a  look 
The  boy  upon  the  lamp-post  clearly  knew 
"The  heavens  were  opened  unto  him," — 
"The  spirit  of  God  descending  like  a  dove" — 
Until  the  mystery  of  the  general  soul 
Wrought  to  unwonted  sense  of  unison 
Moved  all  to  silence  for  the  homely  words 
Of  Father  Abraham  Lincoln  to  his  kind — 
Words  clear  as  Light  itself,  so  plain — so  plain 
None  deemed  him  other  than  their  fellow  man. 


140 


THE    PRAISE    OF    LINCOLN 

in 

Once  more.    A  boy  in  blue  at  sixteen  years, 

Mid  groups  of  blue  along  the  crazy  road 

Of  corduroy  astretch  from  City  Point, 

Toward  yonder  spire  in  fatal  Petersburg, 

Beyond  what  trenches,  rifle-pits,  and  forts, 

What  woeful  far-front  grave-mounds  sunken  down 

To  puddles  over  pickets  shot  on  post — 

What  cemeteries  shingle-marked  with  names 

Of  companies  and  regiments  and  corps, 

Of  moldering  bones  and  rags  of  blue  and  gray, 

And  belts  and  buttons,  rain  and  wind  exposed — 

Mired  army  wagons — forms  of  swollen  mules — 

Springfields  and  Enfields,  broken-stocked,  stuck  up 

Or  strown,  all  rusting — parked  artillery — 

Brush  shelter  stables — lines  and  lines  of  huts, 

Tent-covered  winter  quarters,  sticks  and  mud 

For  chimneys  to  the  many  thousand  smokes 

Whose  dropping  cinders  black-rimmed  million  holes 

Through  veteran  canvas  ludicrously  patched — 

Squares  of  parade  all  mud — and  mud,  and  mud, 

With  mingled  grass  and  chips  and  refuse  cans 

Strown  myriad  far  about  the  plain  of  war, 

Whose  scrub-oak  roots  for  scanty  fires  were  grubbed, 

And  one  sole  house,  and  never  fence  remained 

Where  fifty  leagues  of  corn-land  smiled  before. 

Belated  March — a  lowering,  rainless  day 
With  glints  of  shine ;  the  veteran  tents  of  Meade 
Gave  forth  their  veteran  boys  in  crowds  of  blue, 
Infantry,  cavalry,  gunners,  engineers, 
Easterner,  Westerner,  Yankee,  Irish,  "Dutch," 
Canuck,  all  sorts  and  sizes,  f  rowsed,  unkempt, 
Unwashed,  half -smoked,  profane  exceedingly, 
Moody  or  jokeful,  formidable,  free 
From  fear  of  colonels  as  of  corporals, 

141 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Each  volunteer  the  child  of  his  own  whim, 
And  every  man  heart-sworn  American 
Trudging  the  mud  to  view  the  cavalcade 
Of  Father  Abraham  Lincoln  to  The  Front. 

He,  Chief  Commander  of  all  Union  hosts, 
Of  more  than  thrice  three  hundred  thousand  more, 
Rode  half  a  horseneck  first,  since  Grant  on  right 
And  Meade  on  left  kept  reining  back  their  bays; 
Full  uniformed  were  they  and  all  their  train, 
Sheridan,  Humphreys,  Warren,  Hazen,  Kautz, 
Barlow,  McLaughlen,  Ord,  and  thirty  more, 
Blazing  for  once  in  feathers  and  in  gold. 
Old  Abe,  all  black,  bestrode  the  famous  steed, 
Grant's  pacing  black — and  sure  since  war  began 
No  host  of  war  had  such  commander  seen ! 

Loose-reined  he  let  the  steady  pacer  walk ; 

Those  rail-like  legs,  that  forked  the  saddle,  thrust 

Prodigious  spattered  boots  anear  the  mud, 

Preposterous  his  parted  coat-tails  hung, 

In  negligence  his  lounging  body  stooped, 

Tipping  the  antic-solemn  stovepipe  hat ; 

It  seemed  some  old-time  circuit  preacher  turned 

From  Grant  to  Meade  and  back  again  to  Grant, 

Attentive,  questioning,  pondering,  deep  concerned — 

The  common  Civil  Power  directing  War. 

He,  travesty  of  every  point  of  horsemanship, 
They,  so  bedizened,  riding  soldier  stern — 
The  contrast  past  all  telling  comical — 
And  Father  Abraham  wholly  unaware ! 

Too  much  by  far  for  soldier  gravity — 
A  breeze  of  laughter  traveling  as  he  passed, 
Rose  sudden  to  a  gale  that  stormed  his  ear. 

142 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

The  President  turned  and  gazed  and  understood 
All  in  one  moment,  slightly  shook  his  head, 
Not  warningly,  but  with  a  cheerful  glee, 
And  sympathy  and  love,  as  if  he  spoke : 
" You  scalawags,  you  scamps,  but  have  your  fun !" 
Pushed  up  the  stovepipe  hat,  and  all  around 
Bestowed  his  warming,  right  paternal  smile, 
As  if  his  soul  embraced  us  all  at  once. 

Then  strangely  fell  all  laughter.    Some  men  choked, 
And  some  grew  inarticulate  with  tears ; 
A  thousand  veteran  children  thrilled  as  one, 
And  not  a  man  of  all  the  throng  knew  why ; 
Some  called  his  name,  some  blessed  his  holy  heart, 
And  then,  inspired  with  pentecostal  tongues, 
We  cheered  so  wildly  for  Old  Father  Abe 
That  all  the  bearded  generals  flamed  in  joy ! 

What  was  the  miracle?    His  miracle. 
Was  Father  Abraham  just  a  son  of  Man, 
As  Jesus  seemed  to  common  Nazarenes  ? 
Shall  Father  Abraham  Lincoln  yet  prevail, 
And  his  Republic  come  to  stay  at  last  ? 
Kind  Age,  unenvious  Youth,  democracy, 
None  lower  than  the  first  in  comradeship, 
However  differing  in  mental  force, 
The  higher  intellect  set  free  to  Serve, 
All  undistracted  by  the  woeful  need 
To  grab  or  pander  lest  its  children  want ; 
Old  trivial  gewgaws  of  the  peacock  past 
Smiled  to  the  nothingness  of  desuetude, 
With  strut ful  Rank,  with  pinchbeck  Pageantry, 
With  apish  separative-cant  of  class, 
With  inhumane  conventions,  all  designed 
To  sanctify  the  immemorial  robbery 
Of  Man  by  men;  with  mockful  mummeries, 

143 


THE    PRAISE   OF    LINCOLN 

Called  Law,  to  save  the  one  perennial  Wrong — 

That  fundamental  social  crime  which  fates 

All  babes  alike  to  Inequality, 

And  so  condemns  the  many  million  minds 

(That  might,  with  happier  nurture,  finely  serve) 

To  share,  through  life,  the  harmful  hates  or  scorns 

The  accursed  System  breeds,  which  still  most  hurts 

The  few  who  fancy  it  their  benefit, 

Shutting  them  lifelong  from  the  happiness 

Of  such  close  sympathy  with  all  their  kind 

As  feels  the  universal  God,  or  Soul, 

Alive  to  love  in  every  human  heart. 

Was  it  for  this  our  Mothers'  sons  were  slain  ? 
Shall  Father  Abraham  not  prevail  again  ? 

We  who  are  marching  to  the  small-flagged  graves 
We  earned  by  fight  to  free  our  fathers'  slaves, 
We  who  by  Lincoln's  hero  soul  were  sworn, 
We  go  more  sadly  toward  our  earthly  bourne 
To  join  our  comrade  host  of  long  ago, 
Since,  oh  so  clearly,  do  our  old  hearts  know 
We  shall  not  witness  what  we  longed  to  see — 
Our  own  dear  children  minded  to  be  free. 

Why  let  democracy  be  flouted  down  ? 
Why  let  your  money-mongers  more  renown 
Their  golden  idol  than  the  Common  Weal, 
Flaunting  the  gains  of  liberty-to-steal, 
Fouling  the  promise  of  the  heights  we  trod 
With  Freedom's  sacrifice  to  Lincoln's  God? 

Was  it  for  this  he  wept  his  children  slain? 
Or  shall  our  Father's  spirit  rise  again  ? 


144 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Florence  Evelyn  Pratt 

Lincoln,  the  woodsman,  in  the  clearing  stood, 

Hemmed  by  the  solemn  forest  stretching  round ; 
Stalwart,  ungainly,  honest-eyed  and  rude, 

The  genius  of  that  solitude  profound. 
He  clove  the  way  that  future  millions  trod, 

He  passed,  unmoved  by  worldly  fear  or  pelf ; 
In  all  his  lusty  toil  he  found  not  God, 

Though  in  the  wilderness  he  found  himself. 

Lincoln,  the  President,  in  bitter  strife, 

Best-loved,  worst-hated  of  all  living  men, 
Oft  single-handed,  for  the  nation's  life 

Fought  on,  nor  rested  ere  he  fought  again. 
With  one  unerring  purpose  armed,  he  clove 

Through  selfish  sin ;  then  overwhelmed  with  care, 
His  great  heart  sank  beneath  its  load  of  love ; 

Crushed  to  his  knees,  he  found  his  God  in  prayer. 


A  LINCOLN  CAMPAIGN  SONG 

(1858) 

We  hear  a  cry  increasing  still, 
Like  light  it  springs  from  hill  to  hill — 
From  Pennsylvania's  State  it  leaps, 
And  o'er  the  Buckeye  valley  sweeps. 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas ! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas ! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas! 

Lincoln  is  the  man  we  want  to  serve  us ! 

145 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Hoosier  State  first  caught  the  cry, 
The  Hawkeye  State  then  raised  it  high, 
The  Sucker  State  now  waits  the  day, 
When  Lincoln  leads  to  victory ! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas ! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas! 

Lincoln  is  the  man  we  want  to  serve  us! 

Cheer  up,  for  victory's  on  its  way, 
No  power  its  onward  march  can  stay, 
As  well  to  stop  the  thunder's  roar 
As  hope  for  Doug  to  serve  us  more. 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas ! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas ! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas ! 

Lincoln  is  the  man  we  want  to  serve  us! 

Then,  Freemen,  rally,  one  and  all, 
Respond  to  our  brave  leader's  call ; 
Free  Speech,  Free  Press,  Free  Soil,  want  we, 
And  Lincoln  to  lead  for  liberty ! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas ! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas ! 

Get  out  of  the  way,  Stephen  Douglas ! 

Lincoln  is  the  man  we  want  to  serve  us ! 


LINCOLN 

John  Tozvnsend  Trozvbridge 

Heroic  soul,  in  homely  garb  half  hid, 
Sincere,  sagacious,  melancholy,  quaint ; 

What  he  endured,  no  less  than  what  he  did, 

Has  reared  his  monument,  and  crowned  him  saint. 

146 


DOUGLAS'  COMPLAINT 

(i860) 

He  punished  me — in  fight  you  see, 
And  said  I  had  the  wrong  of  it; 

For  I  am  small  and  he  is  tall, 

And  that's  the  short  and  long  of  it. 

He  split  a  rail,  through  my  coat-tail 
He  quickly  thrust  the  prong  of  it ; 

I'm  five  feet  one,  that  lofty  son 
Is  six  feet  four  and  strong  of  it. 


"WIDE-AWAKE  CLUB"  SONG 

(Tune:  "A  Wet  Sail  and  a  Flowing  Sea") 

Oh,  hear  you  not  the  wild  huzzas 
That  come  from  every  State  ? 

For  honest  Uncle  Abraham, 
The  people's  candidate? 

He  is  our  choice,  our  nominee, 
A  self-made  man  and  true ; 

We'll  show  the  Democrats  this  fall 
What  honest  Abe  can  do. 

Then  give  us  Abe,  and  Hamlin,  too, 

To  guide  our  gallant  ship, 
With  Seward,  Sumner,  Chase,  and  Clay, 

And  then  a  merry  trip. 

I  hear  that  Doug  is  half  inclined 

To  give  us  all  leg-bail, 
Preferring  exercise  on  foot 

To  riding  on  a  rail. 

147 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

For  Abe  has  one  already  mauled 
Upon  the  White  House  plan ; 

If  once  Doug  gets  astride  of  that, 
He  is  a  used  up  man. 

Then  give  us  Abe,  and  Hamlin,  too, 

To  guide  our  gallant  ship, 
With  Seward,  Sumner,  Chase,  and  Clay, 

And  then  a  merry  trip. 


HONEST  ABE 

Henry  Howard  Broumell 
(Nomination  of  i860.    "A  Most  Hideous  Nickname") 

"Honest  Abe!"    What  strange  vexation 
Thrills  an  office-armchaired  party! 

What  impatience  and  disgust 

That  the  people  should  put  trust 
In  a  name  so  true  and  hearty ! 

What  indignant  lamentation 
For  the  unchose — surely  fitter 
(Growl  they)  than  a  rough  rail-splitter — 

Most  unheard-of  nomination! 

If  the  name  you  chance  to  mention, 
Sir  (they  splutter)  the  Convention, 

Sir,  has  acted  like  a  babe ! 
You  have  missed  it,  be  assured, 
All  your  best  men  left  to  leeward ; 
Give  us  Banks,  or  Bates,  or  Seward — 

But  confound  this  "Honest  Abe!" 


148 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

There's  a  story  somewhere  told, 
By  a  fellow  grave  and  old, 

Which,  just  now,  is  rather  pat. 
I  bethink  me  of  his  name — 
Plutarch — and  of  lives  the  same 

Had  as  many  as  a  cat. 

In  the  little  state  of  Athens 

Was  a  usage,  there  and  then 
Practiced  by  those  classic  heathens, 

Rather  hard  on  public  men. 
Whatsoe'er  the  service  past, 

If  they  happened  to  distrust  'em — 
Thought  'em  getting  on  too  fast — 

'Twas,  it  seems,  the  pleasant  custom 
Just  an  oyster-shell  to  shy 
(Sans  a  wherefore  or  a  why) 
Into  a  ballot-box  huge  and  high — 

With  whatever  name  upon  it, 
Chanced  the  elector's  mind  to  strike, 

(Sulking,  like  a  jealous  noddy, 

O'er  his  Norways  and  his  toddy,) — 

Well,  the  name  of  anybody 
That  he  didn't  chance  to  like. 

And  the  gentleman  who  won  it — 
Such  election — (held  to  tell 

What  the  free  enlightened  wished) 

Was,  in  fact,  considered  dished, 
And  served  out  on  the  half-shell! 

And  must  needs,  at  any  rate, 
Draw  a  line  in  double-quick, 
Mizzle,  vamos,  cut  his  stick, 

And  absquatulate ! 


149 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Simple  and  ingenious  scheme ! 

Of  split  tickets  there  were  none — 
(Though  the  bivalve  you  might  deem 
Suited  well  for  such  extreme) — 

Hard  or  Soft  Shell — all  were  one! 

Once,  while  thus  with  general  clamor 

Athens  eased  her  factious  heart — 
When  the  smith  forsook  his  hammer, 

And  the  huckster  left  his  mart — 
Past  the  scene  of  noisy  riot, 

Clatter  of  shells  and  windy  talk, 
Aristides,  calm  and  quiet, 

Chanced  to  take  a  morning  walk. 

Musing,  in  his  wonted  fashion, 

On  the  double  care  of  state — 
On  the  Demos'  fickle  passion, 

And  the  cold  patrician  hate — 

When  a  voter  pressed  beside  him, 
Saying,  "Stranger,  can  you  spell 

Aristides  ?    Wal,  jest  write  him, 

Square  and  straight,  on  this  here  shell." 

Smiling,  cheery  as  a  cricket, 

Wrote  the  old  Republican — 
Then,  as  he  returned  the  ticket, 

Asked — "And  what's  his  crime,  my  man  ?" 


*( 


Wal,  not  much,  '  said  Snooks,  appearing 
Puzzled,  "only  I'll  be  cussed 
But  I'm  sick  to  death  of  hearing 
That  old  critter  called  'The  Just!'  " 


150 


PARRICIDE 

Julia  Ward  Howe 
(Abraham  Lincoln— April  14th,  1865) 

O'er  the  warrior  gauntlet  grim 
Late  the  silken  glove  we  drew, 
Bade  the  watch-fires  slacken  dim 
In  the  dawn's  auspicious  hue. 

Stayed  the  armed  heel ; 

Still  the  clanging  steel ; 
Joys  unwonted  thrilled  the  silence  through. 

Gladly  drew  the  Easter  tide ; 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  anew 
Turned  to  Him  who  spotless  died 
For  the  peace  that  none  shall  rue. 

Out  of  mortal  pain 

This  abiding  strain 
Issued :  "Peace,  my  peace  I  give  to  you.', 

Musing  o'er  the  silent  strings, 
By  their  apathy  oppressed, 
Waiting  for  the  spirit-wings 
To  be  touched  and  soul-possessed. 

"I  am  dull,"  I  said : 

"Treason  is  not  dead ; 
Still  in  ambush  lurks  the  shivering  guest." 

Then  a  woman's  shriek  of  fear 
Smote  us  in  its  arrowy  flight ; 
And  a  wonder  wild  and  drear 
Did  the  hearts  of  men  unite. 

Has  the  seed  of  crime 

Reached  its  flowering-time, 
That  it  shoots  to  this  audacious  height  ? 

151 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Then,  as  frosts  the  landscape  change, 
Stiffening  from  the  summer's  glow, 
Grew  the  jocund  faces  strange, 
Lay  the  loftiest  emblem  low: 

Kings  are  of  the  past, 

Suffered  still  to  last; 
These  twin  crowns  the  present  did  bestow. 

Fair  assassin,  murder  white, 
With  thy  serpent  speed  avoid 
Each  unsullied  household  light, 
Every  conscience  unalloyed. 

Neither  heart  nor  home 

Where  good  angels  come 
Suffer  thee  in  nearness  to  abide. 

Slanderer  of  the  gracious  brow, 
The  untiring  blood  of  youth, 
Servant  of  an  evil  vow, 
Of  a  crime  that  beggars  ruth, 

Treason  was  thy  dam, 

Wolfling,  when  the  Lamb, 
The  Anointed,  met  thy  venomed  tooth. 

With  the  righteous  did  he  fall, 
With  the  sainted  doth  he  lie ; 
While  the  gibbet's  vultures  call 
Thee,  that,  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky, 

Disavowed  of  both 

In  their  Godward  troth, 
Thou  mayst  make  thy  poor  amend,  and  die. 


152 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

If  it  were  my  latest  breath, 
Doomed  his  bloody  end  to  share, 
I  would  brand  thee  with  his  death 
As  a  deed  beyond  despair. 

Since  the  Christ  was  lost 

For  a  felon's  cost, 
None  like  thee  of  vengeance  should  beware. 

Leave  the  murderer,  noble  song, 
Helpless  in  the  toils  of  fate : 
To  the  just  thy  meeds  belong, 
To  the  martyr,  to  the  state, 

When  the  storms  beat  loud 

Over  sail  and  shroud, 
Tunefully  the  seaman  cheers  his  mate. 

Never  tempest  lashed  the  wave 
But  to  leave  it  fresher  calm ; 
Never  weapon  scarred  the  brave 
But  their  blood  did  purchase  balm. 

God  hath  writ  on  high 

Such  a  victory 
As  uplifts  the  nation  with  its  psalm. 

Honor  to  the  heart  of  love, 
Honor  to  the  peaceful  will, 
Slow  to  threaten,  strong  to  move, 
Swift  to  render  good  for  ill ! 

Glory  crowns  his  end, 

And  the  captive's  friend 
From  his  ashes  makes  us  freemen  still. 


153 


PARDON 

Julia  Ward  Howe 
(Wilkes  Booth— April  26th,  1865) 

Pains  the  sharp  sentence  the  heart  in  whose  wrath  it 
was  uttered, 

Now  thou  art  cold ; 
Vengeance,  the  headlong,  and  Justice,  with  purpose 
close  muttered, 

Loosen  their  hold. 

Death  brings  atonement;  he  did  that  whereof  ye  ac- 
cuse him, — 

Murder  accurst ; 
But  from  that  crisis  of  crime  in  which  Satan  did  lose 
him, 

Suffered  the  worst. 

Harshly  the  red  dawn  arose  on  a  deed  of  his  doing, 

Never  to  mend ; 
But  harsher  days  he  wore  out  in  the  bitter  pursuing 

And  the  wild  end. 

So  lift  the  pale  flag  of  truce,  wrap  those  mysteries 
round  him, 

In  whose  avail 
Madness  that  moved,  and  the  swift  retribution  that 
found  him, 

Falter  and  fail. 

So  the  soft  purples  that  quiet  the  heavens  with  mourn- 
ing 

Willing  to  fall, 
Lend  him  one  fold,  his  illustrious  victim  adorning 

With  wider  pall. 

154 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Back  to  the  cross,  where  the  Savior  uplifted  in  dying 

Bade  all  souls  live, 
Turns  the  reft  bosom  of  Nature,  his  mother,  low  sigh- 
ing, 

Greatest,  forgive! 


LINCOLN 

Richard  Linthicum 

(On  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  His  Nomination  for  President 
of  the  United  States,  May  18th,  i860— 1910) 

The  Beginning 

What  strong,  sure  hand  shall  guide  the  laboring  ship 
Through  seas  that  gather  rage  beneath  black  skies 
And  bring  a  new  world's  freighted  hopes  to  port  ? 
Give  us  a  captain  bold  and  tried  and  true, 
Not  this  gaunt,  shambling,  homespun  lout — 
Railsplitter,  backwoods  jester,  wrestling  clown. 

The  End 

A  sturdy  oak  knit  to  the  virgin  soil, 

Its  sheltering  boughs  in  benediction  spread 

And  nerve-responsive  to  each  gentle  breeze, 

Storm-racked  and  bent,  the  forest's  pride  and  chief, 

Outlives  the  tempest  and  the  lightning's  wrath 

To  die  in  its  full  prime,  stung  by  a  worm. 

The  Retrospect 

As  in  a  mountain  range  one  giant  peak 
Lifts  its  tall  head  above  its  fellow-crests, 
A  guide  to  all  within  the  lofty  land, 
A  world-enriching  treasure  in  its  depths, 
So  Lincoln  stood  among  his  fellow-men, 
With  rugged,  seamy  front  and  heart  of  gold. 

*55 


LINCOLN 

Lydia  London  Elliott 

The  deeds  of  him  who  bore  that  name 
On  Ethiopia's  soul  are  marked  in  flame ! 
Caressed  at  birth  by  Toil's  hard  hands, 
He  lingered  not,  till  Life's  uplands 
Rose  clear,  distinct  before  his  gaze — 
A  golden  mist  from  purplish  haze. 
Honesty,  faith,  pure  love,  exemplified ; 
Great  Nature  wept  when  Lincoln  died ! 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Walter  Malone 

A  blend  of  mirth  and  sadness,  smiles  and  tears ; 
A  quaint  knight-errant  of  the  pioneers ; 
A  homely  hero  born  of  star  and  sod ; 
A  Peasant  Prince;  a  Masterpiece  of  God. 

LINCOLN— THE  BOY 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

O  simple  as  the  rhymes  that  tell 

The  simplest  tales  of  youth, 
Or  simple  as  a  miracle 

Beside  the  simplest  truth — 
So  simple  seems  the  view  we  share 

With  our  Immortals,  sheer 
From  Glory  looking  down  to  where 

They  were  as  children  here. 

156 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Or  thus  we  know,  nor  doubt  it  not, 

The  boy  he  must  have  been 
Whose  budding  heart  bloomed  with  the  thought 

All  men  are  kith  and  kin — 
With  love-light  in  his  eyes  and  shade 

Of  prescient  tears : — Because 
Only  of  such  a  boy  were  made 

The  loving  man  he  was. 


THE  STROKE  OF  JUSTICE 

Lyman  Whitney  Allen 

The  hour  was  come,  the  Nation's  crucial  hour; 
A  crisis  of  the  world,  a  turn  of  time ; 
The  ages'  hope  and  dream. 
And  one  undaunted  soul,  sinewed  with  power, 
Freedom's  anointed,  rose  to  height  sublime, 
Imperial  and  supreme ; 

And,  lifting  high  o'er  groaning  multitude 

His  sovereign  scepter,  smote  with  such  a  stroke 
The  chains  of  centuries, 
That  earth  was  shaken  to  its  farthest  rood ; 
That  million  manacles  asunder  broke, 
And  myriad  properties 

Became,  in  one  immortal  moment, — men ; 
Free  with  the  free  in  all  the  rounded  earth ; 
Redeemed  by  martyr  blood ; 
To  stand  with  faces  to  the  light  again, 

Attaining,  through  their  resurrection  birth, 
To  human  brotherhood. 


157 


LINCOLN 

Thomas  MacKcllar 

So  deep  our  grief,  it  may  be  silence  is 

The  meetest  tribute  to  the  father's  name : 
A  secret  shrine  in  every  heart  is  his 

Whom  death  hath  girt  with  an  immortal  fame; 
And  in  this  dim  recess  our  thoughts  abide, 

Clad  in  the  garment  of  unspoken  grief, 
As  fain  the  sorrow  of  the  heart  to  hide 

That  yields  no  tears  to  give  our  woe  relief. 
But  death  is  not  to  such  as  he,  we  cry : 

His  tongue  is  mute ;  his  heart  may  pulse  no  more : 
Yet  men  so  good  and  loved  do  never  die ; 

But  while  the  tide  shall  flow  upon  the  shore 
Of  time  to  come,  a  presence  to  the  eye 

Of  nations  shall  he  be,  and  evermore 
Shall  freemen  treasure  in  historic  page 
This  martyr-hero  of  earth's  noblest  age. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Rose  Terry  Cooke 
("Strangidatus  Pro  Republica") 

Hundreds  there  have  been,  loftier  than  their  kind, 
Heroes  and  victors  in  the  world's  great  wars  : 
Hundreds,  exalted  as  the  eternal  stars, 

By  the  great  heart,  or  keen  and  mighty  mind ; 

There  have  been  sufferers,  maimed  and  halt  and  blind, 
Who  bore  their  woes  in  such  triumphant  calm 
That  God  hath  crowned  them  with  the  martyr's 
palm; 

And  there  were  those  who  fought  through  fire  to  find 

158 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Their  Master's  face,  and  were  by  fire  refined. 

But  who  like  thee,  oh  Sire !  hath  ever  stood 
Steadfast  for  truth  and  right,  when  lies  and  wrong 
Rolled  their  dark  waters,  turbulent  and  strong; 

Who  bore  reviling,  baseness,  tears  and  blood 
Poured  out  like  water,  till  thine  own  was  spent, 
Then  reaped  Earth's  sole  reward — a  grave  and  monu- 
ment! 


LINCOLN:    A  RETROSPECT 

Harry  H.  Kemp 

Now  that  the  winds  of  Peace  have  blown  away 
The  battle  smoke  which  long  obscured  the  day, 
Now  that  all  wrath  is  as  a  tale  of  old 
And  human  flesh  is  minted  into  gold 
No  longer,  and  the  straggling  thunders  cease 
And  all  the  land  is  wrapt  in  busy  peace — 
There  towers  in  our  sight  this  man  of  worth 
Above  the  selfish  kings  that  ruled  the  earth. 
He  did  not  yearn  for  hopeless  things,  nor  sigh 
For  purple  kingdoms  verging  on  the  sky, 
Nor  long  for  irised  landscapes  shimmering  fair 
In  a  blown  bubble  of  inconstant  air, 
But  with  great  vision  of  the  years  to  be 
He  shaped  a  mighty  nation's  destiny 
And  gave  all  man  can  give — his  life  he  gave— 
To  weld  the  broken  state  and  free  the  slave. 

Gave  resolution  to  the  rulers  pen ; 

The  books  he  conned  beside  the  open  fire 

Made  strong  the  brain  which  battles  could  not  tire 

The  law  courts  with  forensic  shift  and  strife 

The  ax  the  gaunt  youth  swung  in  dale  and  glen 

Prepared  him  for  that  tragedy,  his  life. 

J59 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

He  never  held  his  ways  from  men  apart, 

Yet  kept  a  sanctuary  in  his  heart 

Whence  flowed  a  stream  of  love  and  hope,  to  bless, 

Pure  as  a  clear  spring  in  a  wilderness. 

He  trusted  God — bearing  the  weight  of  war — 

As  olden  captains  trusted  in  a  star. 

And  yet  he  was  not  all  the  stolid  oak : 

Full  well  could  he  the  foeman's  smile  provoke 

With  homely  proverb  or  a  timely  joke. 

Calm  and  serene  unto  the  end  he  passed 
And  bravely  met  his  martyrdom  at  last.    .    .    . 
They  crossed  his  thin,  worn  hands  upon  his  breast. 
God  gave  the  country  peace  and  Lincoln  rest ! 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

John  Vance  Cheney 

His  people  called,  and  forth  he  came 
As  one  that  answers  to  his  name ; 
Nor  dreamed  how  high  his  charge, 
His  privilege  how  large, — 

To  set  the  stones  back  in  the  wall 
Lest  the  divided  house  should  fall. 
The  shepherd  who  would  keep 
The  flocks,  would  fold  the  sheep, 

Humbly  he  came,  yet  with  the  mien 
Presaging  the  immortal  scene, — 
Some  battle  of  His  wars 
Who  sealeth  up  the  stars. 

160 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

No  flaunting  of  the  banners  bold 
Borne  by  the  haughty  sons  of  old ; 
Their  blare,  their  pageantries, 
Their  goal, — they  were  not  his. 

We  called,  he  came ;  he  came  to  crook 
The  spear  into  the  pruning-hook, 
To  toil,  untimely  sleep, 
And  leave  a  world  to  weep. 


LINCOLN 

James  G.  Clark 

With  life  unsullied  from  his  youth, 

He  meekly  took  the  ruler's  rod, 
And,  wielding  it  in  love  and  truth, 

He  lived,  the  noblest  work  of  God. 
He  knew  no  fierce,  unbalanced  zeal, 

That  spurns  all  human  differings, 
Nor  craven  fear  that  shuns  the  steel 

That  carves  the  way  to  better  things. 

And  in  the  night  of  blood  and  grief, 

When  horror  rested  on  the  ark, 
His  was  the  calm,  undimmed  belief 

That  felt  God's  presence  in  the  dark; 
Full  well  he  knew  each  wandering  star, 

That  once  had  decked  the  azure  dome 
Would  tremble  through  the  clouds  of  War, 

And,  like  a  prodigal,  come  home. 

He  perished  ere  the  angel  Peace 
Had  rolled  war's  curtains  from  the  sky, 

But  he  shall  live  when  wars  shall  cease — 
The  great  and  good  can  never  die ; 

161 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

For  though  his  heart  lies  cold  and  still 
We  feel  its  beatings  warm  and  grand, 

'And  still  his  spirit  pulses  thrill 

Through  all  the  councils  of  the  land. 

Oh,  for  the  hosts  that  sleep  to-day, 

Lulled  by  the  sound  of  Southern  waves; 
The  sun  that  lit  them  in  the  fray 

Now  warms  the  flowers  upon  their  graves — 
Sweet  flowers  that  speak  like  words  of  love 

Between  the  forms  of  friend  and  foe, 
Perchance  their  spirits  meet  above, 

Who  crossed  their  battle-blades  below. 

'Twas  not  in  vain  the  deluge  came, 

And  systems  crumbled  in  the  gloom, 
And  not  in  vain  have  sword  and  flame 

Robbed  home  and  heart  of  life  and  bloom ; 
The  mourner's  cross,  the  martyr's  blood, 

Shall  crown  the  world  with  holier  rights, 
And  slavery's  storm  and  slavery's  flood 

Leave  Freedom's  ark  on  loftier  heights. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

This  man  whose  homely  face  you  look  upon 
Was  one  of  Nature's  masterful,  great  men ; 
Born  with  strong  arms,  that  un fought  battles  won, 
Direct  of  speech  and  cunning  with  the  pen. 
Chosen  for  large  designs,  he  had  the  art 
Of  winning  with  his  humor,  and  he  went 
Straight  to  his  mark,  which  was  the  human  heart; 
Wise,  too,  for  what  he  could  not  break  he  bent. 

162 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Upon  his  back  a  more  than  Atlas-load, 
The  burden  of  the  Commonwealth,  was  laid ; 
He  stooped,  and  rose  up  to  it,  though  the  road 
Shot  suddenly  downward,  not  a  whit  dismayed : 
Patiently  resolute,  what  the  stern  hour 
Demanded,  that  he  was, — that  Man,  that  Power. 


THE  NIGHT  RIDE  OF  ANCIENT  ABE 

Miles  O'Reilly 
(Charles  Graham  Halpine) 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  party  cry — 

We  were  all  most  terribly  flurried, 
As,  with  kindling  horror  in  heart  and  eye, 

Old  Abe  to  the  rail-cars  we  hurried. 

We  hurried  him  quickly,  at  dead  of  night, 
A  disguise  o'er  his  long  limbs  throwing, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  a  bull's-eye  dimly  glowing. 

No  useless  pageant  or  pomp  we  had, 

But  with  Sumner's  cloak  around  him, 
And  canny  Sim  Cameron's  cap  of  plaid 

To  put  through  in  the  dark  we  bound  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  words  he  said, 

As  we  looked  in  his  face  of  sorrow, 
But  sadly  we  thought  of  the  row  to  be  made 

In  the  Herald  and  Times  of  the  morrow. 


163 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

We  thought,  as  we  jostled  him  into  the  car 

Without  either  cheer  or  ovation, 
What  a  laugh  there  would  be  when  the  news  spread 
afar 

Of  the  Rail-splitter's  ass-ass-ination. 

We  started  the  train,  and  the  hero  was  off, 

Evading  each  Plug-Ugly  sentry ; 
But,  Lord !  how  the  heathen  will  guffaw  and  scoff 

At  this  new  kind  of  "national  entry." 

Gayly  the  Post  of  the  plot  may  make  light, 
And  talk  of  the  "Tooley  street  tailors," 

But,  snugly  installed  in  the  mansion  of  white, 
The  Rail-splitter  laughs  at  all  railers. 


THE  ANCIENT  ABE 

Miles  O'Reilly 

(Charles  Graham  Halpine) 

{Air:  "The  Shan  Van  Vocht") 

"Let  us  up  and  do  or  die," 

Says  the  Ancient  Abe; 
"Let  us  up  and  do  or  die," 

Says  old  Abe ; 
"We  will  rear  our  banner  high 
As  the  stars  are  in  the  sky, 
And  our  enemies  shall  fly," 
Says  the  ancient  Abe. 

Then  to  Washington  he  flew, 
Did  the  ancient  Abe — 

Then  to  Washington  he  flew, 
Did  old  Abe; 

164 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

And  he  swore  by  black  and  blue 
All  seceders  to  "put  through," 
And  the  forts  to  man  anew, 
Did  the  ancient  Abe. 

Has  he  kept  his  solemn  vow, 

Has  the  ancient  Abe? 
Has  he  kept  his  solemn  vow, 

Has  old  Abe? 
By  the  Lord !  we  see  him  bow 
At  the  shadow  of  a  row — 
'Tis  an  ugly  case  of  "cow" 

With  the  ancient  Abe. 

For  without  a  cannon  fired 

By  the  ancient  Abe — 
Not  a  gun  or  cracker  fired 

By  old  Abe- 
He  has  peacefully  retired, 
Granting  all  the  South  desired, 
Sinking  down  as  it  aspired, 

Has  the  ancient  Abe. 

"Major  Anderson's  to  blame," 

Cries  the  ancient  Abe ; 
"It  is  he  that  is  to  blame," 

Says  old  Abe ; 
And  thus  to  hide  the  shame 
Of  a  heart  that  is  not  "game," 
He  befouls  that  honored  name, 

Does  the  ancient  Abe. 

Oh,  my  friends,  we've  had  enough 

Of  this  ancient  Abe — 
Much  more  than  was  enough 

Of  old  Abe; 

165 


THE   PRAISE   OE   LINCOLN 

He  is  made  of  such  weak  stuff, 
The  South  beats  his  game  of  bluff, 
And  I  fear  they'll  ride  him  rough — - 
Ride  the  ancient  Abe. 

Let  us  watch  and  wait  and  pray 

For  the  ancient  Abe — 
For  our  country  let  us  pray, 

And  for  Abe ; 
Let  us  help  him  if  we  may, 
When  he  falters  on  the  way, 
Guide  him  back  when  gone  astray. — 

Poor  bewildered  Abe. 

For  though  all  the  saddest  fates 

Link  with  ancient  Abe — 
All  the  most  despairing  fates 

Link  with  Abe — 
He  is  captain  in  the  gates 
Of  these  grand  United  States, 
And  must  be  till  time  abates — 

Hapless  ancient  Abe. 

Let  us  therefore,  though  we  squirm 

Under  ancient  Abe — 
Though  we  writhe  and  groan  and  squirm 

Under  Abe — 
Let  us  all  stand  true  and  firm, 
Of  his  courage  nurse  the  germ, 
And  in  patience  bear  the  term 

Of  the  ancient  Abe. 


i6fl 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN— 1863 

Richard  Realf 


It  touches  to  the  quick  the  spirit  of  one 

Who  knows  what  Freedom  is ;  whose  eyes  have  seen 
The  crops  thou  sowest  ripen  in  the  sun ; 

Whose  feet  have  trod  the  fields  wherein  men  glean 
The  harvests  of  thy  lonely  hours,  when  thou 

Didst  grapple  with  the  Incarnate  Insolence 

Lording  the  Land  with  impious  pretense, 
And  very  bravely  on  its  arrogant  brow 

Didst  set  thy  sealed  abhorrence — when  he  hears 
The  glib  invectives  which  men  launch  at  thee, 

Beloved  of  Peoples,  crowned  in  all  thy  years 
Nestor  of  all  our  chiefs  of  Liberty, 

As  if  thou  wert  some  devil  of  crafty  spell 

Let  loose  to  lure  the  unwary  unto  hell. 


11 


But  thou  art  wiser ;  thy  clear  spiritual  sense 

Threading  our  tangled  darkness,  seest  how 
The  equilibriums  of  Omnipotence 

Poise  the  big  worlds  in  safety.    Disavow 
And  jeer  thee  as  men  will,  stab,  howl,  and  curse, 

Nor  pluck  the  noble  memories  of  thy  name 
From  the  glad  keeping  of  the  Universe 

Quickened  with  the  conjunction  of  thy  spirit, 
For  lo !  thou  art  Ours  alone — and  yet  thou  art 

Nature's,  Mankind's,  the  Age's!    We  inherit 
Joint  treasures  from  thee ;  but  we  stand  apart 

From  all  the  earth  in  bitter  trespasses 

'Gainst  thee  and  thy  great  throb  of  tenderness. 

167 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 
in 

Nathless,  let  not  our  cold  ingratitude 

Make  sad  the  soul  within  thee :  in  the  years 

When  the  full  meanings  of  our  brotherhood 
Roll  their  high  revelations  round  the  spheres, 

The  solemn  passion  of  thy  life  shall  be 
A  wonder  and  a  worship  unto  all, 
Whose  eyes  behold  the  Apocalyptical 

Transfiguration  of  Humanity. 

Meanwhile,  because  thy  recompense  is  pain, 

Weary  not  thou ;  invisible  lips  shall  kiss 

The  trouble  from  thy  heart  and  from  thy  brain, 

In  all  the  days  of  thy  self-sacrifice, 

Thy  blessed  hurts  being  still  thy  amplest  wage, 
Thou  Archimedes  of  Love's  leverage. 


LINCOLN— 1865 

Lewis  V.  F.  Randolph 

What  hast  thou  hidden,  mournful  Night 

What  have  ye  seen,  O  Stars ! 
A  country  turning  to  the  Light, 

Covered  with  sacred  scars, 
Plunged  back  in  dark  and  dire  distress 

By  one  foul,  fiendish  deed 
That  leaves  a  people  comfortless — 

Makes  every  true  heart  bleed. 

It  was  no  common  crime  that  struck 
That  God-like  man  to  earth — 

Ruthless,  the  tender  eye  to  pluck 
That  watched  our  land's  new  birth. 
168 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

No  word — nor  Treason,  Fratricide, 

Nor  Parricide — can  tell 
His  act,  whose  hand  was  so  allied 

With  powers  of  deepest  hell. 

This  was  our  brother,  father — more; — 

Chosen  by  mother-land, 
His  name  her  valiant  sons  adore 

In  every  patriot  band. 
God  of  our  brethren  and  our  sires ! 

Be  Thou  our  Father  now ; 
Whilst  at  our  altars  and  our  fires 

In  prayerful  grief  we  bow! 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Frank  Moore 
(January  ist,  1863) 

Stand  like  an  anvil,  when  'tis  beaten 

With  the  full  vigor  of  the  smith's  right  arm ! 
Stand  like  the  noble  oak-tree,  when  'tis  eaten 

By  Saperda  and  his  ravenous  swarm ! 
For  many  smiths  will  strike  the  ringing  blows 
Ere  the  red  drama  now  enacting  close ; 
And  human  insects,  gnawing  at  thy  fame, 
Conspire  to  bring  thy  honored  head  to  shame. 

Stand  like  the  firmament,  upholden 

By  an  invisible  but  Almighty  hand ! 
He  whomsoever  Justice  doth  embolden, 

Unshaken,  unseduced,  unawed  shall  stand. 
Invisible  support  is  mightier  far, 
With  noble  aims  than  walls  of  granite  are ; 
And  simple  consciousness  of  justice  gives 
Strength  to  a  purpose  while  that  purpose  lives. 

169 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Stand  like  the  rock  that  looks  defiant 

Far  o'er  the  surging  seas  that  lash  its  form! 
Composed,  determined,  watchful,  self-reliant, 

Be  master  of  thyself,  and  rule  the  storm! 
And  thou  shalt  soon  behold  the  bow  of  peace 
Span  the  broad  heavens,  and  the  wild  tumult  cease  ; 
And  see  the  billows,  with  the  clouds  that  meet, 
Subdued  and  calm,  come  crouching  to  thy  feet. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN'S   CHRISTMAS 

GIFT 

Nora  Perry 

'Twas  in  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-four, 
That  terrible  year  when  the  shock  and  roar 
Of  the  nation's  battles  shook  the  land, 
And  the  fire  leapt  up  into  fury  fanned, 

The  passionate,  patriotic  fire, 

With  its  throbbing  pulse  and  its  wild  desire 

To  conquer  and  win,  or  conquer  and  die, 

In  the  thick  of  the  fight  when  hearts  beat  high 

With  the  hero's  thrill  to  do  and  to  dare, 
'Twixt  the  bullet's  rush  and  the  muttered  prayer. 
In  the  North,  and  the  East  and  the  great  Northwest, 
Men  waited  and  watched  with  eager  zest 

For  news  of  the  desperate,  terrible  strife, — 
For  a  nation's  death  or  a  nation's  life; 
While  over  the  wires  there  flying  sped 
News  of  the  wounded,  the  dying  and  dead. 

170 


THE  PRAISE  OF  LINCOLN 

"Defeat  and  defeat!    Ah!  what  was  the  fault 
Of  the  grand  old  army's  sturdy  assault 
At  Richmond's  gates?"  in  querulous  key 
Men  questioned  at  last  impatiently, 

As  the  hours  crept  by,  and  day  by  day 
They  watched  the  Potomac  Army  at  bay. 
Defeat  and  defeat !    It  was  here,  just  here, 
In  the  very  height  of  the  fret  and  fear, 

Click,  click!  across  the  electric  wire 
Came  suddenly  flashing  words  of  fire, 
And  a  great  shout  broke  from  city  and  town 
At  the  news  of  Sherman's  marching  down, — 

Marching  down  on  his  way  to  the  sea 
Through  the  Georgia  swamps  to  victory. 
Faster  and  faster  the  great  news  came, 
Flashing  along  like  tongues  of  flame, — 

McAllister  ours !    And  then,  ah !  then, 
To  that  patientest,  tenderest,  noblest  of  men, 
This  message  from  Sherman  came  flying  swift,- 
"I  send  you  Savannah  for  a  Christmas  gift!" 


HUSHED  BE  THE  CAMPS  TO-DAY 

Walt  Whitman 
(May  4th,  1865) 

Hushed  be  the  camps  to-day, 
And  soldiers,  let  us  drape  our  war-worn  weapons, 
And  each  with  musing  soul  retire  to  celebrate 
Our  dear  commander's  death. 

171 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

No  more  for  him  life's  stormy  conflicts, 

Nor  victory,  nor  defeat — no  more  time's  dark  events, 

Charging  like  ceaseless  clouds  across  the  sky. 

But  sing,  poet,  in  our  name. 

Sing  of  the  love  we  bore  him — because  you,  dweller  in 
camps,  know  it  truly. 

As  they  invault  the  coffin  there, 

Sing — as  they  close  the  doors  of  earth  upon  him — one 

verse 
For  the  heavy  hearts  of  soldiers. 


CROWN  HIS  BLOOD-STAINED 
PILLOW 

Julia  Ward  Howe 

Crown  his  blood-stained  pillow 

With  a  victor's  palm ; 
Life's  receding  billow 

Leaves  eternal  calm. 

At  the  feet  Almighty 

Lay  this  gift  sincere; 
Of  a  purpose  weighty, 

And  a  record  clear. 

With  deliverance  freighted 

Was  this  passive  hand, 
And  this  heart,  high-fated, 

Would  with  love  command. 

Let  him  rest  serenely 

In  a  Nation's  care, 
Where  her  waters  queenly 

Make  the  West  more  fair. 
172 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

In  the  greenest  meadow 
That  the  prairies  show, 

Let  his  marble  shadow 
Give  all  men  to  know : 

"Our  First  Hero,  living, 
Made  his  country  free ; 

Heed  the  Second's  giving, 
Death  for  Liberty." 


THE  PRESIDENT'S  PROCLAMATION 

Hozvard  Glyndon 
(Laura  C.  Redden  Searing) 

Authorising  the  Mustering  Into  Service  of  Colored  Regiments 

Lift  up  the  bowed,  desponding  head, 

O  long-enduring  race ! 
Let  the  meek  sufferance  of  your  eyes 

Abash  the  tyrant's  face. 

Take  courage,  O  despairing  race! 

The  tides  of  fortune  turn, 
When  white  men  take  in  kindly  clasp 

The  hands  they  used  to  spurn ! 

Go  into  battle  side  by  side 

With  men  of  fairer  hue; 
We  will  not  hinder  by  our  scorn 

The  work  you  have  to  do ! 

Despised,  rejected,  cast  away, 

Ye  are  God's  children  yet ! 
And  on  the  foreheads  of  your  race 

His  mercy-seal  is  set ! 

*73 


LINCOLN  CENTENARY  ODE 

Percy  Mackaye 

I 

No  ceremonial 

Of  pealed  chime  was  there,  or  blared  horn, 
Such  as  hath  blazoned  births  of  lesser  kings, 
When  he — the  elder  brother  of  us  all, 
Lincoln — was  born. 
At  his  nativity- 
Want  stood  as  sponsor,  stark  Obscurity 
Was  midwife,  and  all  lonely  things 
Of  nature  were  unconscious  ministers 
To  endow  his  spirit  meek 
With  their  own  melancholy.    So  when  he — • 
An  infant  king  of  commoners — 
Lay  in  his  mother's  arms,  of  all  the  earth 
(Which  now  his  fame  wears  for  a  diadem) 
None  heeded  of  his  birth ; 
Only  a  star  burned  over  Bethlehem 
More  bright,  and,  big  with  prophecy, 
A  secret  gust  from  that  far  February 
Fills  now  the  organ-reeds  that  peal  his  centenary. 


Who  shall  distil  in  song  those  epic  years  ? 
Only  the  Sibyl  of  simplicity, 
Touched  by  the  light  and  dew  of  common  tears, 
Might  chant  that  homely  native  Odyssea. 

For  there  are  lives  too  large  in  simple  truth 
For  art  to  limn  or  elegy  to  gauge, 
And  there  are  men  so  near  to  God's  own  ruth 
They  are  the  better  angels  of  their  age, 

174 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  such  was  he :  beyond  the  pale  of  song 
His  grandeur  looms  in  truth,  with  awful  grace; 
He  lives  where  beauty's  origins  belong 
Deep  in  the  primal  raptures  of  his  race. 

Yet  may  we  strive  to  trace 

His  shadow — where  it  pulses  vast 

Upon  imagination,  cast 

By  the  oft-handtrimm'd  lamp  of  history — 

In  carved  breath,  or  bronze,  that  we  might  scan 

The  imagined  child  and  man 

Whose  life  and  death  are  looms  of  our  own  destiny. 


in 


How  like  a  saga  of  the  northern  sea 
Our  own  Kentucky  hero-tale  begins ! 

Once  on  a  time,  far  in  a  wintry  wood, 

A  lone  hut  stood ; 

There  lived  a  poor  man's  son  that  was  to  be 

A  master  man  of  earth. 
And  so  for  us, 

Like  children  in  the  great  hall  of  his  spirit, 
The  homebred  fairy-story  spins 
Annals  whose  grace  the  after-times  inherit. 

The  uncouth  homestead  by  the  trail  of  Boone, 
The  untitled  grant,  the  needy  exodus, 
The  ox-cart  on  the  Indiana  heath, 
The  log  shack  by  the  Sangamon,  and  soon 
The  fever'd  mother  and  the  forest  death — 
From  these  the  lonely  epic  wanders  on. 

The  longshank  boy,  with  visage  creased  by  toil 
And  laughter  of  the  soil, 

175 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Cribbing  his  book  of  statutes  from  his  chore, 

Erelong  his  nooning  fellows  of  the  field 

Hail  their  scrub-orator,  or  at  sundown — 

Slouching  his  gaunt  and  sallow  six-foot-four — 

Their  native  Touchstone  of  the  village  store. 

Or  from  the  turf,  where  he  has  matched  his  build 

To  throw  the  county  champion  in  the  loam, 

Idly  he  saunters  home 

To  rock  some  mother's  cradle  in  the  town ; 

Or,  stretched  on  counter  calico,  with  Clay 

And  organ-sounding  Webster,  dream  the  night  away. 

But  time  begins 

Slowly  to  sift  the  substance  from  the  slag. 

And  now  along  the  county  pike's  last  lap, 

With  giant  shins 

Shut  knife  wise  in  his  wabbling  rattletrap, 

The  circuit  lawyer  trots  his  tired  nag 

Toward  the  noon  tavern,  reins  up,  and  unrolls 

His  awkward  length  of  wrinkled  bombazine, 

Clutching  his  tattered  green 

Umbrella  and  thin  carpetsack, 

And  flings  a  joke  that  makes  the  rafters  roar : 

As  if,  uplooming  from  of  yore, 

Some  quaint-accoutered  king  of  trolls, 

Out-elbowing  a  sexton's  suit  of  black 

In  Christmas  glee, 

Should  sudden  crack 

His  shrilly  jest  of  shrewd  hilarity, 

And  shake  the  clambering  urchins  from  his  back. 

IV 

How  vast  the  war  invisible 
When  public  weal  battles  with  public  will ! 
Proudly  the  stars  of  Union  hung  their  wreath 
On  the  young  nation's  lordly  architrave; 

176 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Yet  underneath 
Its  girding  vaults  and  groins, 
Half  the  fair  fabric  rested  on  the  loins 
And  stooping  sinews  of  a  slave, 
That — raised  to  the  just  stature  of  a  man- 
Should  rend  the  whole  asunder. 
And  now  the  million-headed  serf  began 
To  stir  in  wonder, 

And  from  the  land,  appalled  by  that  low  thunder, 
"Kansas-Nebraska!"  rang 
The  cry,  and  with  exceeding  pang 
Out  of  the  earth  blood  sprang 
And  out  of  men's  hearts,  fire.    And  that  hot  flame, 
Fed  by  the  book  that  burned  in  all  men's  homes, 
Kindled  from  horizon  to  horizon 
Anguish  and  shame 
And  aspiration,  by  its  glow 
Ruddying  the  state-house  domes 
With  monstrous  shadows  of  Dred  Scott 
And  gaunt-limbed  effigies  of  Garrison. 

Then  in  the  destined  man  matured  the  slow 

Strong  grandeur  of  that  lot 

Which  singled  him ;  till  soon, 

Ushered  with  lordly  train, 

The  champion  Douglas  met  him  on  the  plain, 

And  the  broad  prairie  moon 

Peered  through  white  schooners  at  the  mad  bonfires 

And  multitudes  astir, 

Where — roped  like  wrestlers  in  a  ring — 

The  Little  Giant  faced  the  Railsplitter; 

And  serious  crowds  harked  silently, 

With  smothered  taunts  and  ires, 

While  Commonsense  grappled  with  "Sovereignty," 

Till  the  lank,  long-armed  wrestler  made  his  fling. 

And  still  sublime 

177 


THE   PRAISE   OF  LINCOLN 

Witli  common  sympathy,  that  cool 

Sane  manfulness  survives:    You  can  not  fool 

All  of  the  people  all  the  time. 

No;  by  that  power  we  misname  fate, 

'Tis  character  which  molds  the  state. 

Statutes  are  dead  when  men's  ideals  dissent, 

And  public  will  is  more  than  precedent, 

And  manhood  more  than  constitutions  can  create. 

Higher  than  bar  and  documental  ban, 

Men's  highest  court  is  still  the  heart  of  Man. 


Bold  to  his  country,  sick  with  compromise, 

Spoke  the  plain  advocate; 

Half  slave,  half  free,  our  Union  dies, 

But  it  shall  live!    And  done  with  sophistries, 

The  people  answered  with  tempestuous  call 

That  shook  the  revolutionary  dead, 

And  high  on  rude  rails  garlanded 

Bore  their  backwoodsman  to  the  Capitol. 

"Who  is  this  common  huckster?"  sneered  the  great, 

"This  upstart  Solon  of  the  Sangamon?" 

And  chastened  Douglas  answered :   "He  is  one 

Who  wrestles  well  for  Truth."    But  some 

Scowled  unbelief,  and  some  smiled  bitterly; 

And  so,  beneath  the  derrick'd  half -built  dome, 

While  dumb  artillery 

And  guards  battalioned  the  black  lonely  form, 

He  took  his  oath. 

We  are  not  enemies,  but  friends! 

Yet  scarce  the  sad  rogation  ends 

Ere  the  warped  planks  of  Union  split  in  storm 

Of  dark  secession. 


i78 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Then,  as  on  a  raft 
Flood-rended,  where  by  night  the  Ohio  sweeps 
Into  the  Mississippi,  'mid  the  roil 
Of  roaring  waters  with  eroded  soil 
From  hills  primeval,  the  strong  poleman  keeps 
Silence,  midway  the  shallows  and  the  rocks, 
To  steer  his  shipment  safe,  while  fore  and  aft 
The  scrambling  logmen  scream  at  him,  or  scold 
With  prayers  and  malisons,  or  burst  the  locks 
And  loot  the  precious  bales,  so — deaf  and  mute 
To  sneers  and  imprecations  both — 
The  lone  Flatboatman  of  the  Union  poled 
His  country's  wreck  midstream,  and  resolute 
Held  still  his  goal : 

To  lash  his  ballast  to  the  sundered  half, 
And  save  the  whole. 

"They  seek  a  sign, 

But  no  sign  shall  be  given  them,"  he  said ; 

And  reaching  Godward,  with  his  pilot's  gaff 

Probed  in  the  dark,  among  the  drowning  and  the  dead, 

And  sunk  his  plummet  line 

Deep  in  the  people's  heart,  where  still  his  own  heart 

bled, 
And  fathomed  there  the  inundated  shore 
Swept  by  the  flood  and  storm  of  elemental  war. 


IX 


The  loving  and  the  wise 
May  seek — but  seek  in  vain — to  analyze 
The  individual  man,  for  having  caught 
The  mystic  clue  of  thought, 


179 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Sudden  they  meet  the  controverting  whim, 

And  fumbling  with  the  enchanted  key, 

Lose  it  then  utterly. 

yEsop  and  old  Isaiah  held  in  him 

Strange  sessions,  winked  at  by  Artemus  Ward, 

Till  sudden  in  their  midst  bright  Seraphim 

Stood,  summoned  by  a  sad,  primeval  bard 

Who,  bearing  still  no  name,  has  ever  borne 

Within  his  heart  the  music  of  mankind: 

Sometime  a  lonely  singer  blind 

Beside  the  Ionian  sea; 

Sometime,  between  two  thieves  in  scorn, 

A  face  in  Calvary. 

That  was  his  master  soul — 

The  mystic  demi-god  of  common  man — 

Who,  templed  in  the  steadfast  mind, 

Hid  his  shy  gold  of  genius  in  the  bran 

Of  Hoosier  speech  and  garb,  softening  the  wan 

Strong  face  of  shrewdness  with  strange  aureole. 

He  was  the  madstone  to  his  country's  ire, 
Drawing  the  rancorous  blood  of  envious  quarrel 
Alike  from  foe  and  friend ;  his  pity,  stirr'd, 
Restored  to  its  bough  the  storm-unnested  bird, 
Or  raised  the  wallow'd  pig  from  out  the  mire. 
And  he  who  sowed  in  sweat  his  boyhood's  crop, 
And  tackled  Euclid  with  a  wooden  spade, 
And  excavated  Blackstone  from  a  barrel 
To  hold  moot  trials  in  the  gloaming,  made 
By  lighted  shavings  in  a  cooper's  shop, 
He  is  the  people's  still — their  Railsplitter, 
Himself  a  rail,  clean-grained,  of  character 
Self -hewn  in  the  dark  glades  of  Circumstance 


1 80 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

From  that  deep-hearted  tree 

Democracy, 

Which,  by  our  race's  heritage, 

Reforests  age  on  age, 

Perpetual  in  strong  fecundity. 

•  •••••• 

XI 

But  he  is  more  than  ours,  as  we  are  more 

Than  yet  the  world  dares  dream.    His  stature  grows 

With  that  illimitable  state 

Whose  sovereignty  ordains  no  tribute  shore 

And  borderland  of  hate, 

But  grounds  its  justice  in  the  joy  it  sows. 

His  spirit  is  still  a  power  to  emancipate 

Bondage — more  base,  being  more  insidious, 

Than  serfdom — that  cries  out  in  the  midst  of  us 

For  virtue,  born  of  opportunity, 

And  manhood,  weighed  in  honest  human  worth, 

And  freedom,  based  in  labor.  He  stands  forth 

'Mongst  nations  old — a  new- world  Abraham, 

The  patriarch  of  peoples  still  to  be, 

Blending  all  visions  of  the  promised  land 

In  one  Apocalypse. 

His  voice  is  heard — 
Thrilling  the  molder'd  lintels  of  the  past — 
In  Asia ;  old  Thibet  is  stirred 
With  warm  imaginings ; 
Ancestral  China,  'midst  her  mysteries, 
Unmasks,  and  flings 
Her  veils  wide  to  the  Occident ;  the  wand 
Of  hope  awakes  prone  Hierapolis; 
Even  by  the  straits  of  old  that  Io  swam, 
The  immemorial  sultan,  scepterless, 
Stands  awed ;  and  heartened  by  that  bold  success, 
Pale  Russia  rises  from  her  holocaust. 

181 


THE    PRAISE    OE   LINCOLN 

And  still  the  emancipating  influence, 
The  secret  power,  the  increasing  truth,  are  his, 
For  they  are  ours :  ours  by  the  potencies 
Poured  in  our  nation  from  the  founts  of  time, 
Blending  in  us  the  mystic  seeds  of  men, 
To  sow  them  forth  again 
For  harvests  more  sublime 
Throughout  the  world. 

XII 

Leave,  then,  that  wonted  grief 

Which  honorably  mourns  its  martyred  dead, 

And  newly  hail  instead 

The  birth  of  him,  our  hardy  shepherd  chief, 

Who  by  green  paths  of  old  democracy 

Leads  still  his  tribes  to  uplands  of  glad  peace. 

As  long  as — out  of  blood  and  passion  blind — 

Springs  the  pure  justice  of  the  reasoning  mind, 

And  justice,  bending,  scorns  not  to  obey 

Pity,  that  once  in  a  poor  manger  lay, 

As  long  as,  thrall'd  by  time's  imperious  will, 

Brother  hath  bitter  need  of  brother,  still 

His  presence  shall  not  cease 

To  lift  the  ages  toward  his  human  excellence, 

And  races  yet  to  be 

Shall  in  a  rude  hut  do  him  reverence 

And  solemnize  a  simple  man's  nativity. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Joel  Benton 

Some  opulent  force  of  genius,  soul,  and  race, 
Some  deep  life-current  from  far  centuries 
Flowed  to  his  mind,  and  lighted  his  sad  eyes, 

And  gave  his  name,  among  great  names,  high  place. 

182 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

But  these  are  miracles  we  may  not  trace — 
Nor  say  why  from  a  source  and  lineage  mean 
He  rose  to  grandeur  never  dreamt  or  seen, 

Or  told  on  the  long  scroll  of  history's  space. 

The  tragic  fate  of  one  broad  hemisphere 
Fell  on  stern  days  to  his  supreme  control, 

All  that  the  world  and  liberty  held  dear 

Pressed  like  a  nightmare  on  his  patient  soul. 

Martyr  beloved,  on  whom,  when  life  was  done, 

Fame  looked,  and  saw  another  Washington ! 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Samuel  Francis  Smith 

Heroic  statesman,  hail! 

Thy  honored  name, 
With  instrument  and  song,  we  laud, 

And  poet's  lays ; 
How  every  mountain  top,  and  sheltered  rail, 

And  rock  and  stream, 
And  lisping  tongue  of  infancy  and  age, 

And  manhood's  prime  and  woman's  love, 

Combine  thy  honored  name  to  praise. 

As  to  Anchises'  tomb, 
With  reverent  love,  pious  tineas  came, 

Intent,  with  festal  rites 

To  crown  his  father's  fame, — 
So  we,  with  grateful  reverence,  come  to  pay 
This  loving  tribute  at  the  sacred  shrine, 

The  statesman  wise,  the  martyr  prince, 
The  peerless  man, 
And  on  his  tomb  our  fragrant  garlands  lay. 

183 


THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

Like  the  wild  eagle's  flight, 

When  from  his  rocky  height, 
Down  on  the  plain  he  swoops,  free  as  the  air, 

Born  with  a  soul  of  fire, 
Born  to  be  free, 
Patient  in  toil,  and  danger,  and  alarm, 

He  ventured  all  for  love  of  liberty, 

And  helped  the  lowly  in  that  bliss  to  share. 

Grandly  he  loved  and  lived ; 

Not  his  own  age  alone 
Bears  the  proud  impress  of  his  sovereign  mind. 

Down  the  long  march  of  history, 

Ages  and  men  shall  see 

What  one  great  soul  can  be, 

What  one  great  soul  can  do, 

To  make  a  nation  true, — 
To  raise  the  weak, 
The  lost  to  seek, 
To  be  a  ruler  and  a  father  too ; 
No  scheming  tool, 

No  slave  to  godless  rule, 
Gracious,  efficient,  meek,  sublime,  refined. 

Ambitious, — not  of  wealth, 
Nor  power,  nor  place ; 
His  aim,  a  nobler  race ; 
His  title  eminent, — An  honest  man. 
His,  to  lift  up  the  rude; 
His,  to  be  great  as  good, 

And  good  as  great ; 
His,  to  stem  error's  flood ; 
His,  but  to  help  and  bless ; 
His  to  work  righteousness, 

And  save  the  state. 


184 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Brave,  self-reliant,  wise, 

Calm  in  emergencies, 
Steady,  alike,  to  wait,  and  prompt  to  move ; 

In  counsel,  great  and  safe; 
Prudent  to  plan ; 

Righteous  to  deal  with  sin ; 

Prone,  less  to  force  than  win ; 
Strong  in  his  own  stern  will,  and  strong  in  God; 

Conquering,  alone,  to  bless, — 
A  loving  man. 

Firm,  but  yet  merciful ; 

In  pity  bountiful; 
Calmly  considerate,  serenely  just; 
Nobly  forgiving  to  the  fallen  foe, — 
He,  the  meek  sufferer  from  Oppression's  blow, 

Repaying  ill  with  good, 

E'en  as  the  sandal-wood 
Bathes  with  rare  perfume  the  sharp  axe  that  smites; 

Unflinching  for  the  right, 
Whate'er  might  come, 

And,  until  death, 
Fervent,  decided,  faithful  to  his  trust. 

Great  souls  can  never  die : 

Death  and  decay's  damp  fingers 

Waste  but  the  mortal ; 
A  noble  life  spreads  its  fair  vista  wide. 
Beyond  death's  portal, 

Like  an  unfading  light 

The  life  work  lingers. 
The  hero  dies ;  statesman  and  soldier  fall ; 

The  nation  finds  new  life, 
And  prosperous  years,  and  wealth,  and  peace, 

And  hearts  at  rest,  and  grander  aims, 

And  righteousness, 

185 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  souls  that  dare  to  be, 

Just  as  God  made  them, — free ; 
And  he  who  falls,  crushed  in  the  bitter  strife, 
Lives  magnified,  exalted,  ever  lives ; 

His  work  bears  fruit  immortal. 

So  the  great  sun,  majestic,  plows  his  way 
Through  clouds,  and  storms,  and  dim  eclipse, 

And  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat ; 

And,  nightly,  dips 
His  flaming  disc  in  the  broad  western  sea, 
But  scatters  light  and  blessing  all  the  day. 

Setting,  he  leaves  the  world 
Richer  and  better  for  his  light  and  love ; 

Warmer,  more  fertile,  more  benign ; 
Sets,  but  to  rise,  on  other  lands,  and  shine 

For  ever,  in  the  galaxy  divine. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Edmund  Clarence  Stcdman 
(Assassinated  Good  Friday,  1865) 

"Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do!" 

He  said,  and  so  went  shriven  to  his  fate, — 
Unknowing  went,  that  generous  heart  and  true. 

Even  while  he  spoke  the  slayer  lay  in  wait, 

And  when  the  morning  opened  Heaven's  gate 
There  passed  the  whitest  soul  a  nation  knew. 

Henceforth  all  thoughts  of  pardon  are  too  late; 
They,  in  whose  cause  that  arm  its  weapon  drew, 

Have  murdered  Mercy.    Now  alone  shall  stand 
Blind  Justice,  with  the  sword  unsheathed  she  wore. 

Hark,  from  the  Eastern  to  the  Western  strand, 
The  swelling  thunder  of  the  people's  roar: 

What  words  they  murmur, — Fetter  not  her  hand ! 
So  let  it  smite,  such  deeds  shall  be  no  more ! 

186 


WHEN  LINCOLN  DIED 

Edward  William  Thomson 

Already  Appomattox  day 
Seemed  to  our  hearts  an  age  away, 
Although  the  April-blossomed  trees 
Were  droning  with  the  very  bees 
That  bumbled  round  the  conference 
When  Lee  resigned  his  long  defense, 
And  Grant's  new  gentleness  subdued 
The  iron  Southern  fortitude. 

From  smoldering  leaves  the  smoky  smell 

Wreathed  round  Virginian  fields  a  spell 

Of  homely  aromatic  haze, 

So  like  New  Hampshire  springtime  days 

About  the  slopes  of  Moosilauke 

It  numbed  my  homesick  heart  to  talk, 

And  when  the  bobolinks  trilled  "Rejoice !" 

My  comrade  could  not  trust  his  voice. 

We  were  two  cavalrymen  assigned 
To  safeguard  Pinckney  womankind, 
Whose  darkies  rambled  Lord  knows  where 
In  some  persuasion  that  they  wTere 
Thenceforth,  in  ease,  at  public  charge 
To  live  as  gentlemen  at  large — 
A  purpose  which,  they'd  heard,  the  war 
Was  made  by  "Massa  Linkum"  for. 

The  pillared  mansion,  battle-wrecked, 
Yet  stood  with  ivied  front  erect, 
Its  mossy  gables,  shell-fire-torn, 
Were  still  in  lordliness  upborne 
Above  the  neighboring  barns,  well  stored 
With  war-time's  rich  tobacco  hoard ; 

it? 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

But  on  the  place  for  food,  was  nought 
Save  what  our  commissary  brought 
To  keep  the  planter's  folk  alive 
Till  Colonel  Pinckney  might  arrive 
Paroled  from  northward,  if  his  head 
Lay  not  among  the  prisoner  dead. 

We'd  captured  him  ten  days  before, 
When  Richard  Ewell's  veteran  corps, 
Half-naked,  starving,  fought  amain 
To  save  their  dwindling  wagon-train. 
Since  they  were  weak  and  we  were  strong, 
The  battle  was  not  overlong. 
Again  I  see  the  prisoners  stare 
Exultant  at  the  orange  glare 
Of  sunlit  flame  they  saw  aspire 
Up  from  the  train  they  gave  to  fire. 
They'd  shred  apart  their  hero  flags 
To  share  the  silk  as  heart-worn  rags. 
The  trampled  field  was  strewn  about 
With  wreckage  of  the  closing  rout — 
Their  dead,  their  wounded,  rifles  broke, 
Their  mules  and  horses  slain  in  yoke  ; 
Their  torn-up  records,  widely  spread, 
Fluttered  around  the  muddy  dead — 
So  bitter  did  their  hearts  condemn 
To  ruin  all  we  took  with  them. 

Ten  days  before !    The  war  was  past, 
The  Union  saved,  Peace  come  at  last, 
And  Father  Abraham's  words  of  balm 
Gentling  the  war-worn  States  to  calm. 
Of  all  the  miracles  he  wrought 
That  was  the  sweetest.    Men  who'd  fought 
So  long  they'd  learned  to  think  in  hate, 
And  savor  blood  when  bread  they  ate, 

188 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  hear  their  buried  comrades  wail, 
How  long,  O  Lord,  doth  wrong  prevail? 

Listening  alike,  in  blue  or  gray, 

Felt  war's  wild  passions  soothed  away. 

By  homely  touches  in  the  air 

That  morning  was  so  sweet  and  rare 

That  Father  Abraham's  soul  serene 

Seemed  brooding  over  all  the  scene ; 

And  when  we  found  the  plow,  I  guess 

We  were  so  tired  of  idleness 

Our  farmer  fingers  yearned  to  hold 

The  handles,  and  to  sense  the  mould 

Turning  the  earth  behind  the  knife. 

Jim  gladdened  as  with  freshened  life; — 

"Say,  John,"  said  he,  "I'm  feeling  beat 

To  know  what  these  good  folks  will  eat 

When  you  and  I  are  gone.     Next  fall 

They're  sure  to  have  no  crop  at  all. 

All  their  tobacco's  confiscate 

By  Washington — and  what  a  state 

Of  poverty  they're  bound  to  see! 

Say,  buddy,  what  if  you  and  me 

Just  hitch  our  cavalry  horses  now 

Up  to  this  blamed  Virginia  plow, 

And  run  some  furrows  through  the  field  ? 

With  commissary  seed  they'd  yield 

A  reasonable  crop  of  corn." 

"They  will,"  said  I,  "as  sure's  you're  born !" 

Quickly  we  rigged,  with  rope  and  straps 
And  saddle  leathers — well,  perhaps 
The  Yankiest  harness  ever  planned 
To  haul  a  plow  through  farming  land. 
It  made  us  kind  of  happy,  too, 
Feeling  like  Father  Abraham  knew. 
189 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

The  Pinckncy  place  stood  on  a  rise, 
And  when  we'd  turned  an  end,  our  eyes 
Would  see  the  mansion  war  had  wrecked, — 
Such  desolation !    I  suspect 
The  women's  hearts  were  mourning  sore; 
But  not  one  tear  we  saw — they  bore 
Composed  the  fortune  fate  had  sent — 
But,  O  dear  Lord,  how  still  they  went ! 
I've  seen  such  quiet  in  a  shroud, 
Inscrutably  resigned  and  proud. 

Yet,  when  we'd  worked  an  hour  or  two, 
And  plain  was  what  we  meant  to  do, 
Mother  and  daughters  came  kind-eyed, — 
"Soldiers — my  soldier  husband's  pride 
Will  be  to  thank  you  well — till  then 
We  call  you  friendly,  helpful  men — " 
It  seemed  she  stopped  for  fear  of  tears. 
She  turned — they  went — Oh,  long  the  years 
Gone  by  since  that  brave  lady  spoke — 
And  yet  I  hear  the  voice  that  broke. 

We  watched  them  climb  the  lilac  hill, 
Again  the  spring  grew  strangely  still 
Ere,  far  upon  the  turnpike  road, 
Across  a  clattering  bridge,  where  flowed 
Through  sand  the  stream  of  Pinckney  Run, 
We  heard  the  galloping  of  one 
Who,  hidden  by  the  higher  ground, 
Pounded  as  fast  as  horse  could  pound. 
Then — all  again  was  still  as  death — 
Till  up  the  slope  with  laboring  breath, 
A  white  steed  rose — his  rider  gray 
Spurring  like  mad  his  staggering  way. 


190 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

The  man  was  old  and  tall  and  white, 
His  glooming  eyes  looked  dead  to  light, 
He  rode  with  such  a  fateful  air 
I  felt  a  coldness  thrill  my  hair, 
He  rode  as  one  hard  hit  rides  out 
In  horror  from  some  battle  rout, 
Bearing  a  cry  for  instant  aid — 
That  aspect  made  my  heart  afraid. 
The  death-like  rider  drew  no  rein, 
Nor  seemed  to  note  us  on  the  plain, 
Nor  seemed  to  know  how  weak  in  stride 
His  horse  strove  up  the  long  hillside; 
When  down  it  lurched,  on  foot  the  man 
Up  through  the  fringing  lilacs  ran, 
His  left  hand  clutching  empty  air 
As  if  his  saber  still  hung  there. 

'Twas  plain  as  day  that  human  blast 

Was  Colonel  Pinckney  home  at  last, 

And  we  were  free,  since  ordered  so 

That  with  his  coming  we  might  go ; 

Yet  on  we  plowed — the  sun  swung  high, 

Quiet  the  earth  and  blue  the  sky — 

Silent  we  wrought,  as  men  who  wait 

Some  half -imagined  stroke  of  fate, 

While  through  the  trembling  shine  came  knells 

Tolling  from  far-off  Lynchburg  bells. 

The  solemn,  thrilling  sounds  of  gloom 
Bore  portents  of  tremendous  doom, 
On  smoky  zephyrs  drifted  by 
Shadows  of  hosts  in  charging  cry, 
In  fields  where  silence  ruled  profound 
Growling  musketry  echoed  round, 
Pale  phantom  ranks  did  starkly  pass 
Invisible  across  the  grass, 

191 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Flags  ghosted  wild  in  powder  fume 
Till,  miracled  in  memory's  room, 
Rang  the  old  regiment's  rousing  cheer 
For  Father  Abraham,  smiling  queer. 

'Twas  when  we  turned  a  furrow's  end 

We  saw  a  martial  form  descend 

From  Mansion  Hill  the  lilac  way, 

Till  in  our  field  the  veteran  gray 

Stood  tall  and  straight  as  at  parade, 

And  yet  as  one  with  soul  dismayed. 

That  living  emblem  of  the  South 

Faced  us  unblenching,  though  his  mouth 

So  quivered  with  the  spoken  word 

It  seemed  a  tortured  heart  we  heard ; — 

"Soldiers" — he  eyed  us  nobly  when 

We  stood  to  "attention" — "Soldiers — men, 

For  this  good  work  my  thanks  are  due — 

But — men — O  God — men,  if  you  knew, 

Your  kindly  hands  had  shunned  the  plow — 

For  hell  comes  up  between  us  now ! — 

Oh,  sweet  was  peace — but  gone  is  peace — 

Murder  and  hate  have  fresh  release ! — 

The  deed  be  on  the  assassin's  head ! — 

Men — Abraham  Lincoln's  lying  dead!" 

He  steadied  then — he  told  us  through 
All  of  the  tale  that  Lynchburg  knew, 
While  dumbly  raged  my  anguished  heart 
With  woe  from  pity  wrenched  apart, 
For,  in  the  fresh  red  furrow,  bled 
'Twixt  us  and  him  the  martyred  dead. 
That  precious  crimson  ran  so  fast 
It  merged  in  tinge  with  battles  past, — 
Hatcher's,  Five  Forks,  The  Wilderness, 
The  Bloody  Angle's  maddened  stress; 

192 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Down  Cemetery  Hill  there  poured 
Torrents  that  stormed  to  Kelly's  Ford, 
And  twice  Manassas  flung  its  flood 
To  swell  the  four  years'  tide  of  blood, 
And  Sumter  blazed,  and  Ellsworth  fell, 
While  memory  flashed  its  gleams  of  hell. 

The  colonel's  staring  eyes  declared 

In  visions  wild  as  ours  he  shared, 

Until — dear  Christ — with  Thine  was  blent 

The  death-transfigured  President. 

Strange — strange — the  crown  of  thorns  he  wore, 

His  outspread  hands  were  pierced  sore, 

And  down  his  old  black  coat  a  tide 

Flowed  from  the  javelin-wounded  side; 

Yet  'twas  his  homely  self  there  stood, 

And  gently  smiled  across  the  blood, 

And  changed  the  mystic  stream  to  tears 

That  swept  afar  the  angry  years, 

And  flung  me  down  as  falls  a  child 

Whose  heart  breaks  out  in  weeping  wild. 


Yet  in  that  field  we  plowed  no  more, 
We  shunned  the  open  Southern  door, 
We  saddled  up,  we  rode  away, — 
Tis  that  that  troubles  me  to-day. 

Full  thirty  years  to  dust  were  turned 
Before  my  pondering  soul  had  learned 
The  blended  vision  there  was  sent 
In  sign  that  our  Beloved  meant ; — 
Children  who  z<r  ought  so  mild  my  will, 
Plozi'  the  long  furrow  kindly  still, 
'Tis  sweet  the  Father's  zuork  to  see 
Done  for  the  memory  of  me. 

T93 


THE  DEAD  PRESIDENT 

Edivard  Rozvland  Sill 

Were  there  no  crowns  on  earth, 
No  evergreen  to  wreathe  a  hero  wreath, 
That  lie  must  pass  beyond  the  gates  of  death, 
Our  hero,  our  slain  hero,  to  be  crowned  ? 
Could  there  on  our  unworthy  earth  be  found 

Naught  to  befit  his  worth  ? 

The  noblest  soul  of  all ! 
When  was  there  ever  since  our  Washington, 
A  man  so  pure,  so  wise,  so  patient — one 
Who  walked  with  this  high  good  alone  in  sight, 
To  speak,  to  do,  to  sanction  only  Right, 

Though  very  heaven  should  fall. 

Ah,  not  for  him  we  weep ; 
What  honor  more  could  be  in  store  for  him  ? 
Who  would  have  had  him  linger  in  our  dim 
And  troublesome  world,  when   his  great  work  was 

done — 
Who  would  not  leave  that  worn  and  weary  one 

Gladly  to  sleep? 

For  us  the  stroke  was  just ; 
We  were  not  worthy  of  that  patient  heart ; 
We  might  have  helped  him  more,  not  stood  apart, 
And  coldly  criticised  his  works  and  ways — 
Too  late  now,  all  too  late — our  little  praise 

Sounds  hollow  o'er  his  dust. 

Be  merciful,  O  our  God! 
Forgive  the  meanness  of  our  human  hearts, 
That  never,  till  a  noble  soul  departs, 
See  half  the  worth,  or  hear  the  angel's  wings 
Till  they  go  rustling  heavenward  as  he  springs 

Up  from  the  mounded  sod. 
194 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Yet  what  a  deathless  crown 
Of  Northern  pine  and  Southern  orange-flower, 
For  victory,  and  the  land's  new  bridal-hour, 
Would  we  have  wreathed  for  that  beloved  brow! 
Sadly  upon  his  sleeping  forehead  now 

We  lay  our  cypress  down. 

O  martyred  one,  farewell ! 
Thou  hast  not  left  thy  people  quite  alone, 
Out  of  thy  beautiful  life  there  conies  a  tone 
Of  power,  of  love,  of  trust,  a  prophecy, 
Whose  fair  fulfilment  all  the  earth  shall  be, 

And  all  the  Future  tell. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

William  Henry  V enable 
(1864) 

No  adulation  vain  the  poet  brings, 

Investing  thee  with  godlike  excellence ; 
In  eloquence  of  truth  he  fitly  sings 

Thy  eulogy  by  praising  Common  Sense, 
Firm  Honesty  and  Courage  undismayed, 

Deep  Faith  and  Magnanimity  sublime ! 
What  though  the  violent  thy  name  upbraid  ? 

Thy  Wisdom's  vindication  leave  to  Time. 
O  man  of  Fate,  abide  the  sure  event ; 

Writ  in  the  stars,  behold  the  just  decree! 
The  God  of  Love  chose  thee  His  instrument, 

To  save  the  Union,  set  the  Bondman  free ! 
Smile  on  amid  thy  care,  for  even  now 

The  war-cloud  scatters  and  its  thunders  cease; 
A  grateful  Nation  waits  to  crown  thy  brow 

With  healing  leaves  of  victory  and  peace. 

195 


THE  LINCOLN-CHILD 

James  Oppenheim 

Clearing  in  the  forest, 

In  the  wild  Kentucky  forest, 

And  the  stars,  wintry  stars  strewn  above ! 

O  Night  that  is  the  starriest 

Since  Earth  began  to  roll — 

For  a  Soul 

Is  born  out  of  Love ! 

Mother  love,  father  love,  love  of  Eternal  God — 

Stars  have  pushed  aside  to  let  him  through — 

Through  heaven's  sun-sown  deeps 

One  sparkling  ray  of  God 

Strikes  the  clod — 

(And  while  an  angel-host  through  wood  and  clearing 
sweeps ! ) 

Born  in  the  Wild 

The  Child- 
Naked,  ruddy  new, 

Wakes  with  the  piteous  human  cry  and  at  the  mother- 
heart  sleeps. 

To  the  mother  wild  berries  and  honey, 

To  the  father  awe  without  end, 

To  the  child  a  swaddling  of  flannel — 

And  a  dawn  rolls  sharp  and  sunny 

And  the  skies  of  winter  bend 

To  see  the  first  sweet  word  penned 

In  the  godliest  human  annal. 

Frail  Mother  of  the  Wilderness — 
How  strange  the  world  shines  in 
And  the  cabin  becomes  chapel 
And  the  baby  reveals  God — 

196 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Sweet  Mother  of  the  Wilderness, 
New  worlds  for  you  begin, 
You  have  tasted  of  the  apple 
That  giveth  wisdom  starred. 

Do  you  dream,  as  all  Mothers  dream, 

That  the  child  at  your  heart 

Is  a  marvel  apart, 

A  frail  star-beam 

Unearthly  splendid? 

Ah,  you  are  the  one  mother 

Whose  dream  shall  come  true, 

Though  another,  not  you, 

Shall  see  it  ended. 

Soon  in  the  wide  wilderness, 

On  a  branch  blown  over  a  creek, 

Up  a  trail  of  the  wild  'coon, 

In  a  lair  of  the  wild  bee, 

The  wildling  boy,  by  Danger's  stress, 

Learnt  the  speech  the  wild  things  speak, 

Learnt  the  Earth's  eternal  tune 

Of  God  and  starred  Eternity — 

Went  to  school  where  God  Himself  was  master, 

Went  to  church  where  Earth  was  minister — 

And  in  Danger  and  Disaster 

Felt  his  future  manhood  stir ! 

All  about  him  lay  the  land, 

Eastern  cities,  Western  prairie, 

Wild,  immeasurable,  grand, 

But  he  was  lost  where  blossomy  boughs  make  airy 

Bowers  in  the  forest,  and  the  sand 

Makes  brook-water  a  clear  mirror  that  gives  back 

Green  branches  and  trunks  black 

And  clouds  across  the  heavens  lightly  fanned. 

197 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Yet  all  the  Future  dreams,  eager  to  waken, 

Within  that  woodland  soul — 

And  the  bough  of  boy  has  only  to  be  shaken 

That  the  fruit  drop  whereby  this  Earth  shall  roll 

A  little  nearer  God  than  ever  before. 

Little  recks  he  of  war, 

Of  national  millions  waiting  on  his  word — 

Dreams  still  the  Event  unstirred 

In  the  heart  of  the  boy,  the  little  babe  of  the  wild — 

But  the  years  hurry  and  the  tide  of  the  sea 

Of  Time  flows  fast  and  ebbs,  and  he,  even  he, 

Must  leave  the  wilderness,  the  wood-haunts  wild — 

Soon  shall  the  cyclone  of  Humanity 

Tearing  through  Earth  suck  up  this  little  child 

And  whirl  him  to  the  top,  where  he  shall  be 

Riding  the  storm-column  in  the  lightning-stroke, 

Calm  at  the  peak,  while  down  below  worlds  rage, 

And  Earth  goes  out  in  blood  and  battle-smoke, 

And  leaves  him  with  the  sun — an  epoch  and  an  age ! 

Hushed  be  our  hearts,  and  veneration 

Steep  us  in  joy, 

Hushed  be  our  mills,  while  a  saved  nation 

Reveres  this  boy ! 

Hushed  be  our  homes,  while  a  holy  elation 

Makes  the  heart  mild — 

Each  home  has  a  child 

And  we  worship  a  race  of  Lincolns  in  each  that  we 

love! 
No,  they  may  not  stand  above 
The  storm  and  steer  the  States, 
These  little  children  that  are  born  from  us — 
No,  they  may  not  Lincolns  prove 
In  the  grandeur  of  their  fates — 
But  Lincolns  let  them  be  in  the  heart  and  in  the  soul — 
Even  thus 

198 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Shall  our  Earth  again  toward  God  a  little  swifter, 

nearer  roll, 
Even  thus 
Shall  our  children  touch  the  stars  where  we  have  only 

glimpsed  the  Goal. 
Even  thus  and  only  thus 
Through  the  Future's  arch-like  span 
May  they  go  American ! 
In  his  spirit  shall  they  grow, 
To  his  law  they  shall  be  bound, 
With  his  light  of  God  shall  glow, 
With  his  love  of  Man  be  crowned ! 

Think  of  the  miracle! 

A  child  so  like  our  child, 

A  babe  born  in  the  wild, 

A  little  clod  of  clay,  sweet  blossoming  and  beautiful, 

Earth  that  is  dumb  and  dead, 

Earth  risen  in  child-shape, 

And  suddenly  agape 

Are  the  eyes  and  lips,  and  spread 

Is  the  heart  and  coiled  the  brain — 

And  lo,  the  Silences  are  slain — 

In  our  Wilderness  of  Silence  where  we  were  only  two, 

Man  and  Wife, 

Comes  this  third  and  like  the  voice  of  God  breaks 

through 
With  his  life— 
And  he  answers  back  our  Silence  with  his  babbling, 

wordy  strife — 
Born  of  woman, 
Born  of  man, 
He  is  human 
And  he  can 

Grow  beyond  us  in  the  grandeur  we  began ! 
And  none  greater  than  this  boy 

199 


THE    PRAISE    OF    LINCOLN 

Whom  this  clay 

We  revere  with  holy  joy, 

And  we  thank  the  stars  the  clay 

In  Kentucky  took  on  human  shape  and  spoke, 

In  the  Wilderness  awoke, 

In  the  woodlands  grew  a  creature  of  the  wild, 

This  February  child ! 

And  lo,  as  he  grew  ugly,  gaunt, 

And  gnarled  his  way  into  a  man, 

What  wisdom  came  to  feed  his  want, 

What  worlds  came  near  to  let  him  scan — 

And  as  he  fathomed  through  and  through 

Our  dark  and  sorry  human  scheme, 

He  knew  what  Shakespeare  never  knew, 

What  Dante  never  dared  to  dream — 

That  Men  are  one 

Beneath  the  sun, 

And  before  God  are  equal  souls —  i 

This  truth  was  his, 

And  this  it  is 

That  round  him  such  a  glory  rolls — 

For  not  alone  he  knew  it  as  a  truth, 

He  made  it  of  his  blood,  and  of  his  brain — 

He  crowned  it  on  the  day  when  piteous  Booth 

Sent  a  whole  land  to  weeping  with  world-pain — 

When  a  black  cloud  blotted  the  sun 

And  men  stopped  in  the  streets  to  sob, 

To  think  Old  Abe  was  dead — 
Dead,  and  the  day's  work  still  undone, 
Dead,  and  war's  ruining  heart  athrob, 
And  earth  with  fields  of  carnage  freshly  spread- 
Millions  died  fighting, 
But  in  this  man  we  mourned 
Those  millions,  and  one  other — 

200 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  the  States  to-day  uniting, 

North  and  South, 

East  and  West, 

Speak  with  a  people's  mouth 

A  rhapsody  of  rest 

To  him  our  beloved  best, 

Our  big,  gaunt,  homely  brother — 

Our  huge  Atlantic  coast-storm  in  a  shawl, 

Our  cyclone  in  a  smile — our  President, 

Who  knew  and  loved  us  all 

With  love  more  eloquent 

Than  his  own  words — with  Love  that  in  real  deeds 

was  spent. 
Shelley's  was  a  world  of  Love, 
Carlyle's  was  a  world  of  Work, 
But  Lincoln's  was  a  world  above 
That  of  a  dreamer  or  a  clerk — 
Lincoln  wed  the  one  to  the  other — 
Made  his  a  world  where  love  gets  into  deeds — 
Where  man  was  more  than  merely  brother, 
Where  the  high  Love  was  meeting  human  needs ! 
And  lo,  he  made  his  plan 
Memorably  American ! 

Through  all  his  life  this  mighty  Faith  unfurled! 
O  let  us  see,  and  let  us  know 
That  if  our  hearts  could  catch  his  glow 
A  faith  like  Lincoln's  would  transform  the  world ! 

Oh,  to  pour  love  through  deeds — 

To  be  as  Lincoln  was ! — 

That  all  the  land  might  fill  its  daily  needs 

Glorified  by  a  human  Cause ! 

Then  were  America  a  vast  World-Torch 

Flaming  a  faith  across  the  dying  Earth, 

Proclaiming  from  the  Atlantic's  rocky  porch 

That  a  New  World  was  struggling  at  the  Birth ! 

201 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Ah,  is  this  not  the  day 

That  rolls  the  Earth  back  to  that  mighty  hour 

When  the  sweet  babe  in  the  log-cabin  lay 

And  God  was  in  the  room,  a  Presence  and  a  Power  ? — 

When  all  was  sacred — even  the  father's  heart — 

And  the  stirred  Wilderness  stood  still, 

And  roaring  flume  and  shining  hill 

Felt  the  working  of  God's  Will? 

O  living  God,  O  Thou  who  living  art, 

And  real,  and  near,  draw,  as  at  that  babe's  birth, 

Into  our  souls  and  sanctify  our  Earth — 

Let  down  Thy  strength  that  we  endure 

Mighty  and  pure 

As  mothers  and  fathers  of  our  own  Lincoln-child — 

Make  us  more  wise,  more  true,  more  strong,  more  mild, 

That  we  may  day  by  day 

Rear  this  wild  blossom  through  its  soft  petals  of  clay, 

That  hour  by  hour 

We  may  endow  it  with  more  human  power 

Than  is  our  own — 

That  it  may  reach  the  goal 

Our  Lincoln  long  has  shown ! — 

O  Child — flesh  of  our  flesh,  bone  of  our  bone, 

Soul  torn  from  out  our  Soul ! 

May  you  be  great,  and  pure,  and  beautiful-^ 

A  Soul  to  search  this  world 

To  be  a  father,  brother,  comrade,  son, 

A  toiler  powerful, 

A  man  with  strength  unfurled, 

A  man  whose  toil  is  done 

One  with  God's  Law  above, 

Work  wrought  through  Love ! 


202 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

George  Alfred  Towns  end 

The  peaceful  valley  reaching  wide, 
The  wild  war  stilled  on  every  hand ; 

On  Pisgah's  top  our  Prophet  died, 
In  sight  of  Promised  Land. 

A  cheerful  heart  he  bore  ahvay, 

Though  tragic  years  clashed  on  the  while ; 
Death  sat  behind  him  at  the  play — 

His  last  look  was  a  smile. 

His  single  arm  crushed  wrong  and  thrall — 
That  grand  good  will  we  only  dreamed, 

Two  races  weep  around  his  pall, 
One  saved  and  one  redeemed. 

No  battle  pike  his  march  imbrued ; 

Unarmed  he  went  'midst  martial  mails, 
The  footsore  felt  their  strength  renewed 

To  hear  his  homely  tales. 

The  trampled  flag  he  raised  again, 
And  healed  our  eagle's  broken  wing; 

The  night  that  scattered  armed  men 
Saw  scorpions  rise  to  sting. 

Down  fell  the  brand  in  treason's  hand 
Its  gashes  as  he  strove  to  stanch, 

And  o'er  the  waste  of  ruined  land 
To  take  the  Olive  Branch. 

The  holy  crest  by  murder  stained, 

Upon  its  shattered  portal  lay ; 
The  text  this  bravo's  lips  profaned 

Be  sanctified  for  aye! 
203 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

In  still  green  field  or  bel fried  kirk, 

Where'er  high  boughs  his  sleep  may  lull, 

Here  closed  his  life,  where  closed  his  work, 
Beside  the  Capitol. 

Be  his  no  tomb  perturbed  and  pent, 

With  words  too  weak  for  grief  begilt, — 

Heap  up  his  grander  monument : 
The  Union  he  rebuilt. 


LINCOLN  AND  HIS  PSALM 

Benjamin  F.  Taylor 

Move  on,  ye  pilgrims,  to  the  Springfield  tomb — 
Be  proud  to-day,  O  portico  of  gloom, 
Where  lies  the  man  in  solitary  state 

Who  never  caused  a  tear  but  when  he  died 
And  set  the  flags  around  the  world  half  mast. 
The  gentle  tribune  and  so  grandly  great 
That  e'en  the  utter  avarice  of  Death 

That  claims  the  world,  and  will  not  be  denied, 
Could  only  rob  him  of  his  mortal  breath, 

How  strange  the  splendor,  though  the  man  be  past! 
His  noblest  inspiration  was  his  last. 
The  statues  of  the  Capitol  are  there 
As  when  he  stood  upon  the  marble  stair, 
And  said  those  words  so  tender,  true,  and  just, 
A  royal  psalm  that  took  mankind  on  trust — 

Those  words  that  will  endure,  and  he  in  them 
While  May  wears  flowers  upon  her  broidered  hem, 
And  all  the  marble  snows  and  drifts  to  dust: 
"Fondly  do  we  hope,  and  fervently  we  pray 
That  this  mighty  scourge  of  war  may  speedily  pass 
away  ; 

204 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

With  charity  for  all,  with  malice  toward  none, 
With  firmness  in  the  right 
As  God  shall  give  us  light, 
Let  us  finish  the  work  already  begun — 
Care  for  the  battle  sons,  the  Nation's  wounds  to  bind, 
Care  for  the  helpless  ones  that  they  will  leave  behind, 
Cherish  it  we  will,  achieve  it  if  we  can, 
A  just  and  lasting  peace  forever  unto  man!'' 

Amid  old  Europe's  rude  and  thundering  years 

yWhen  people  strove  as  battle-clouds  are  driven, 
One  calm  white  angel  of  a  day  appears 

In  every  year  a  gift  direct  from  Heaven, 
Wherein  from  setting  sun  to  setting  sun 
No  thought  or  deed  of  bitterness  was  done. 
"Day  of  the  truce  of  God !"  Be  this  day  ours 

Until  perpetual  peace  flows  like  a  river, 
And  hopes  as  fragrant  as  the  tribute  flowers 

Fill  all  the  land  forever  and  forever. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Margaret  E.  Songster 
(February  12th,  1809— 1909) 

Child  of  the  boundless  prairie,  son  of  the  virgin  soil, 
Heir  to  the  bearing  of  burdens,  brother  to  them  that 

toil; 
God  and  Nature  together  shaped  him  to  lead  in  the  van, 
In  the  stress  of  her  wildest  weather  when  the  Nation 

needed  a  Man. 


205 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Eyes  of  a  smoldering  fire,  heart  of  a  lion  at  bay, 

Patience  to  plan  for  to-morrow,  valor  to  serve  for  to- 
day, 

Mournful  and  mirthful  and  tender,  quick  as  a  flash 
with  a  jest, 

Hiding  with  gibe  and  great  laughter,  the  ache  that  was 
dull  in  his  breast ! 

Met  were  the  Man  and  the  Hour — Man  who  was 

strong  for  the  shock — 
Fierce  were  the  lightnings  unleashed ;  in  the  midst,  he 

stood  fast  as  a  rock. 
Comrade  he  was  and  commander  he,  who  was  meant 

for  the  time, 
Iron  in  council  and  action,  simple,  aloof,  and  sublime. 

Swift  slip  the  years  from  their  tether,  centuries  pass 
like  a  breath, 

Only  some  lives  are  immortal,  challenging  darkness  and 
death. 

Hewn  from  the  stuff  of  the  martyrs,  write  in  the  star- 
dust  his  name, 

Glowing,  untarnished,  transcendent,  high  on  the  rec- 
ords of  Fame. 


THE  PEOPLE'S  PRESIDENT 

William  Henry  V enable 
(April  14th  and  15th,  1865) 


Reverberant  music  of  rejoicing  bells 
Loud  heralded  the  morn,  and  cannon  boomed, 
And  banners  waved,  and  gladness  woke  the  town. 

206 


THE    PRAISE    OF    LINCOLN 

As  day  rolled  on,  processions  bearing  high 

Emblazoned  emblems  of  fraternal  love 

Marched  through  the  streets,  their  jubilant  footsteps 

timed 
To  the  accordant  sound  of  martial  horns, 
To  beat  of  drum  and  cymbal's  joyous  clang; 
For  armed  rebellion  vexed  the  States  no  more ! 
And  all  the  day  the  pleasure-crested  wave 
Of  thankful  celebration  swept  along, 
Then,  self-exhausted,  sunk  and  ebbed  away, 
To  murmur  on  the  formless  coast  of  night, 
Scarce  heard  save  in  the  darkling  caves  of  sleep. 

A  sudden  clangor  of  alarum  bells 

At  deep  of  midnight  broke  upon  the  air! 

The  household,  out  of  slumber  startling,  rose, 

To  grope  bewildered,  till  with  trembling  hand 

They  ope  the  door  or  lift  the  yielding  sash, 

Vague  terror  meanwhile  shivering  in  their  hearts, 

And,  thrusting  fearful  faces  in  the  gloom, 

They  were  aware  of  many  sounds  confused, 

Uneasy  questions,  exclamations  strange, 

And  flying  rumors  of  appalling  deeds. 

A  lowering  cloud-rack  overcast  the  sky, 
And  rueful  winds  went  sobbing  in  the  dark, 
While  tremulous  upon  the  affrighted  air 
The  tolling  bells  unceasingly  proclaimed 
Portentous  tidings  from  the  Capital, 
Of  tragic  woe,  and  lamentation  doled 
For  Lincoln  dead, — the  Gentle  President, — 
Untimely  dead,  by  frantic  murder  slain! 
Perpetual  lamentation  strangely  joined 
With  raving  threats  of  terrible  revenge 
And  iron  imprecations  madly  rung. 


207 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

ii 

The  morrow  dawned.  Through  sad  obscuring  mists 

Dimly  the  sun  beheld  a  sorrowing  world. 

Once  more  the  ways  were  thronged  with  citizens ; 

But  music  was  not  heard,  nor  any  sound 

Of  song  or  laughter.    None  but  children  smiled, 

And  even  children  hushed  their  frolic  mirth, 

As  comprehending  vaguely  some  vast  grief 

That  overshadowed  all  the  stricken  Land. 

A  dusky  Freedman  stood  apart,  alone; 
His  arms  were  folded  and  his  head  was  bowed, 
And  in  his  isolate  sorrow  one  might  read 
The  utterless  bereavement  of  a  Race. 

Old  veterans  their  shaggy  eyebrows  knit, 
And  smote  with  vengeful  foot  the  harmless  earth, 
Revealing  inward  wrath,  and  as  they  strode, 
Their  fingers'  steely  muscles  would  contract 
As  fain  to  clutch  some  deadly  instrument 
With  fell  design  to  render  blood  for  blood. 

A  youthful  hero,  like  forlorn  Macduff, 
Drew  down  his  soldier  cap  to  hide  his  tears, 
And  moaned  a  patriot  anguish :   "Would  that  I 
Could  yesternight  have  taken  in  my  brain 
That  cruel  ball,  and  so  have  shielded  him." 

And  men  recounted  sadly  every  deed 

Of  him  they  mourned,  and  reperused  his  words, 

Still  pondering  on  his  wisdom  and  his  love, 

And  marveling  that  they  had  not  sooner  known 

What  prophet  Soul  unrecognized  had  dwelt 

Among  them,  like  the  Nazarene,  ofttimes 

Like  Him  maligned,  and  crowned  with  envious  thorns. 

208 


THE    PRAISE    OF    LINCOLN 

As  woeful  day  moved  wearily  along, 
Funereal  emblems  clouded  every  street ; 
Palatial  hall  and  lowly  cot  obscure 
Wore  kindred  black,  and  sable  heraldry 
Festooned  each  silken  banner's  drooping  folds, 
And  fluttered  sad  by  every  tiny  flag. 

The  sun  went  down ;  the  people  sought  their  homes ; 

And  households  sat  in  meditation  deep, 

Or  spake  of  late  events  with  grave  surmise 

Of  dire  mishaps  and  sorrows  yet  to  come; 

With  doubts  and  fears  and  bitter  questionings 

Of  providential  justice. — But  when  night, 

God's  awful  shadow,  fell  upon  the  town, 

A  holy  calm  fell  also,  and  a  trust 

In  the  Omniscient  Wisdom  that  ordains 

All  things  by  love  divine,  and  reconciles 

The  distant  issues  of  permitted  wrong. 

Unseen  of  men,  still  working  final  good. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

P.  C.  Croll 
(An  Acrostic) 

A  kin  to  all  that's  noble,  abreast  with  all  that's  grand, 
Z?orn  to  become  the  Savior  of  his  imperiled  land ; 
i?eared  'mid  such  desperate  hardships,  his  life  bound  to 

a  cross, 
^4 -treading  out  the  vintage,  restoring  freedom's  loss; 
Hz  was  the  greatest  Champion  of  long  down-trodden 

Right, 
A  Leader  in  the  vanguard,  a  race's  Dawn  of  Light — 
Man  with  whom  Truth  was  mightier  than  custom-for- 

tressed  Might. 

209 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Lo !  how  he  conquers  drawbacks !  Lo !  obstacles  all  fall ! 
In  moral  mail-of-armor  he  fights  at  country's  call, 
iVor  bows  to  fine-spun  Error,  nor  fears  well-buttressed 

Wrong — 
Conviction  gives  him  courage  and  Valor  makes  him 

strong ; 
On  to'rds  Truth's  goal  he  battles,  clear  Duty's  call  he 

heeds, 
Love  binds  him  to  his  fellows,  a  Brother's  right  he 

pleads ; 
No  creeds  nor  color  blinds  him  in  Nation's  direst  needs ! 


FUNERAL  HYMN 

Phoebe  A.  Hanaford 
(Air:  "Mount  Vernon") 

Hushed  to-day  are  the  sounds  of  gladness, 
From  the  mountains  to  the  sea ; 

And  the  plaintive  voice  of  sadness 
Rises,  mighty  God,  to  Thee. 

Freedom  claimed  another  martyr ; 

Heaven  received  another  saint : 
Who  are  we,  Thy  will  to  question  ? 

Lord,  we  weep  without  complaint. 

May  we,  to  Thy  wisdom  bowing, 
Own  Thy  love  in  this  dark  spell, 

While  with  tears  a  mighty  nation 
Buries  one  it  loved  so  well ! 

And,  O  Thou  who  took  our  leader, 
With  the  Promised  Land  in  view, 

While  on  Pisgah's  height  we  leave  him, 
Lead  us,  Lord,  the  Jordan  through. 

2IO 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT 

John  Pierpont 

From  the  beginning  the  Eternal  Cause 

Hath  wrought  according  to  eternal  laws — 

Laws  on  Himself  imposed;  and  His  almight 

Gives  and  obeys  His  law — "Let  there  be  light!" 

His  great  antagonist,  the  Evil  One, 

Says,  as  his  first  command,  "Put  out  the  sun !" 

As  poor  Othello,  jealous  of  his  wife, 

Loving,  yet  goaded  on  to  take  her  life, 

Steals  in,  his  hand  upon  his  dagger's  handle — 

But  finds  himself  unable  while  the  candle 

Its  beautifying  beams  upon  her  throws, 

Showing  such  loveliness  in  such  repose, 

Steps  back,  o'erpowered,  as  would  most  other  men — 

And,  shaking,  says,  "Put  out  the  light,"  and  then — 

"I  can  not  kill  her  when  I  see  my  mark ; 

But  I  can  do  it  if  the  room  is  dark !" 

So  is  it  with  all  servants  of  the  devil : 

They  shun  the  light  because  their  deeds  are  evil. 

'Twas  thus  with  Booth.    The  murderer  came  by 

night, 
Skulked  up  unseen,  though  all  around  was  light, 
And,  when  the  deed  was  done — the  warm  blood 

spilt — 
Plunged  into  darkness,  friendly  to  his  guilt. 
Thus  has  it  been  since  man  first  slew  his  brother : 
"Darkness  and  wrong  have  courted  one  another. 
The  courtship  ends  in  wedlock ;  then  begins 
The  large  and  fertile  family  of  sins. 
The  lazy  loafer,  when  naught  else  is  left, 
Must  "stay  his  stomach  upon  fraud  or  theft;" 
The  swindler  will,  of  course,  the  fraud  deny; 
And  every  theft  is  pregnant  with  a  lie; 

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THE    PRAISE    OF   LINCOLN 

Then  lie  kills  lie,  whene'er  they  meet  abroad, 
And  fraud  expires,  stabbed  by  a  sharper  fraud. 
The  burglar  cuts  his  brother  burglar's  throat, 
And  picks  his  pocket  of  a  spurious  note, 
Which  he  palms  off  to  pay  a  gambling  bet, 
Or  bilks  his  butcher  of  an  honest  debt. 

To  such  expedients  knaves  resort,  to  shirk 

God's   first   commandment — "Thou,   to   live,   must 

work." 
Thanks  for  God's  word  to  Adam  when  He  said, 
"Thou  with  a  sweating  face  shalt  eat  thy  bread." 
Many  there  are  who  deem  this  word  a  curse, 
Thinking,  than  labor  there  is  nothing  worse, 
A  blessed  curse,  if  curse  we  can  it  call, 
That  in  this  sentence  followed  "Adam's  fall." 
Yet  man,  shortsighted  man,  has  madly  striven 
To  avert  this  blessing  of  benignant  Heaven, 
Has  sought  the  pleasures  and  the  power  of  wealth, 
By  crafty  artifice,  by  fraud,  by  stealth, 
To  get  his  bread  by  some  ingenious  plan 
Or  by  the  sweating  face  of  some  more  honest  man. 

The  stronger  savage  aye  his  task  will  shirk, 

And  make  the  weaker  woman  do  his  work. 

The  conquering  soldier  came,  in  time,  to  yield 

Part  of  his  trophies  of  the  battle-field; 

Money,  not  mercy,  prompted  him  to  save 

His  captive's  life,  and  sell  him  as  a  slave! 

Hence  feuds  were  fanned  to  flame,  and  wars  were 

waged, 
Hosts  rushed  to  conflict  and  the  battle  raged, 
Not  that  each  chief  his  foeman's  blood  might  spill ; 
His  aim  to  capture  rather  than  to  kill. 
The  victor  spared  the  foe  he  might  have  slain, 
Tied  him  with  thongs  or  bound  him  with  a  chain, 

212 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  kept  him  toiling  in  his  field  or  fold, 

Or  to  another  gave  him  up  for  gold. 

Thus  slavery  came,  by  God  and  man  abhorred, 

Its  ugly  parents — avarice  and  the  sword ; 

Its  only  office,  that  hard  work  he  shun, 

Whereby  all  glory,  all  true  wealth  are  won. 

To  real  greatness  man  is  never  born, 

Nor  yet  to  idle  hands  fill  Plenty's  horn. 

The  leaky  craft,  just  on  destruction's  brink, 

Says  to  the  seaman,  "Work  your  pump  or  sink!" 

The  frozen  field,  beneath  whose  surface  lie 

Undug  potatoes,  says,  "Root  hog,  or  die!" 

And  the  first  law  by  God  imposed  on  man 

Which,  we  have  seen,  in  Paradise  began, 

Imposed  to  shield  the  race  from  want  and  vice, 

And  which  obeyed  makes  earth  a  paradise, 

Is  clearly  stated  by  the  Apostle  Paul, 

In  terms  that  must  be  understood  by  all ; 

And  which,  in  one  line,  we  will  here  repeat : 

"Who  will  not  labor,  neither  let  him  eat." 

Slavery,  reversing  this  divine  command, 

Lifts  to  insulting  heaven  her  lily  hand, 

Waving  her  sword  or  brandishing  her  dirk, 

And  swears  that  she  will  neither  starve  nor  work ; 

And  hence  has  striven  this  ordinance  to  fix, 

For  all  the  last  four  thousand  of  the  six 

Of  our  bright  planet's  periods  round  the  sun, 

Since  man  on  earth  his  race  began  to  run, 

Namely :  "Regardless  of  the  right  or  wrong, 

The  weak  shall  labor  to  support  the  strong. 

Who  labors  not  shall  live  on  finest  wheat, 

Who  labors  not  shall  feed  on  fattest  meat ; 

Who  fats  and  kills  the  ox,  his  bones  may  gnaw ; 

Who  sows  and  reaps  the  wheat,  may  eat  the  straw; 

The  idlest  hands  shall  stuff  the  busiest  jaws; 

These  are  my  fixed,  my  fundamental  laws." 

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THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

What  is  the  good  wherewith  this  code  is  fraught? 
What  are  the  blessings  slavery  hath  brought? 
Ay,  where,  in  the  wide  field  that  she  has  trod, 
And  o'er  it  plied  her  shackles  and  her  rod, 
Hath  not  this  fiend  left  traces  of  her  hand, 
Diffused  her  blight,  and  pressed  her  burning  brand  ? 
Where  hath  she  brought  a  single  blessing?  Where 
A  sweeter  flower,  or  a  more  balmy  air? 
More  richly  robed  the  earth  in  golden  corn ; 
Sung  holier  hymns  to  Heaven  at  even  or  morn, 
Or  with  more  fruits  filled  Amalthea's  horn  ? 

Ancient  Dominion,  where  the  bondman's  tread, 
First  on  our  shores  was  felt,  lift  up  thy  head ! 
Thy  loving  arms  were  first  around  him  thrown, 
In  thine  embrace  he  loosed  thy  virgin  zone, 
Closest  and  longest  to  thy  bosom  pressed, 
Thou'st  held  the  laboring  bondman  to  thy  breast, 
Lift  up  thy  head — once  proud, — and  show  thy  race 
What  are  the  fruits  of  that  long,  close  embrace! 
What  did  the  bondman  find  thee  when  ye  met  ? 
What  hath  he  left — he  hath  not  left  thee  yet ! 
He  found  thee  fairest  of  the  sister  train ; 
Thy  broad  deep  rivers  rolling  to  the  main ; 
From  the  wood-crowned  Blue  Ridges  that  divide 
Ohio's  waters  from  the  ocean  tide ; 
Thy  valleys,  fertile  as  the  fields  that  smile, 
In  green  and  gold,  along  the  ancient  Nile. 
Thy  hillsides,  dark  with  naval  oaks  and  pines, 
And  teeming  with  their  coal  and  iron  mines ; 
Thy  waterfalls,  echoing  among  the  hills, 
And  clamorous  for  employment  on  thy  mills, 
That  from  the  thundering  car  and  groaning  wain, 
Would  take  thy  sacks,  bursting  with  golden  grain, 
And,  with  their  arms  unwearied,  fill  with  bread 
Each  lordly  mansion  and  each  humble  shed ; 

214 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

That  its  blue  wreath  of  smoke  would  ever  send 
Up  to  the  genial  skies,  that  o'er  thee  bend ; 
While,  in  thy  inland  sea,  their  sails  unfurled, 
Might  ride  secure  the  navies  of  the  world. 
Such  was  thy  beauty,  such  thy  noble  dower, 
Couched,  as  a  queen,  beneath  thy  leafy  bower, 
In  thy  rich  robes  of  flowers  and  foliage  dressed, 
By  balmy  breezes  lovingly  caressed 
Thou  fairest,  richest,  proudest  of  the  States, 
When,  to  the  slave,  thou  openedst  first  thy  gates. 

What  hath  been  wrought  upon  thee  by  his  hand? 
Thy  wasted  forests,  thine  exhausted  land, 
Thy  fields  un fenced,  thy  cattle  few  and  lean, 
Thine  ancient  mansions  fall'n,  thy  new  ones  mean, 
Thy  broad-leaved  poisonous  plant  that  shades  thy 

soil, 
And  makes  the  laborer  languish  at  his  toil, 
The  withering  flowers  that  deck  thy  faded  face, 
Lazy  unthrift,  and  labor  in  disgrace, 
These  show  the  world, — and  they  may  read  who 

run — 
The  work  that  thy  blind  slaves,  and  lords  more  blind 

have  done. 

Ancient  Dominion,  have  I  done  thee  wrong? 

Say'st  thou  my  colors  are  laid  on  too  strong? 

Then  I  will  gladly  lay  my  pencil  down, 

And  trust  thou  wilt  not  blast  me  with  thy  frown 

If  I  exhibit  of  thy  blighted  land, 

Thy  portrait  painted  by  a  friendly  hand. 

The  great  Missourian's  picture  thou  shalt  see ; 

Thou  knew'st  him  well,  and  well  did  he  know  thee. 

Missouri's  Senator,  well  known  to  Fame, 
Whom  some  "the  Old  Roman,"  some  "Old  Bullion" 
name, 

215 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Thus  paints  thy  land  along  Potomac's  side, 
Near  where  Virginia's  and  the  Nation's  pride, 
Thrice  honored  lived,  and  long  lamented,  died. 

"Throughout  this  region,  long  by  slavery  curst, 

Behold  man's  progress  upon  earth  reversed. 

Backwards  and  downwards  everything  goes  on : 

Houses  dilapidated,  tenants  gone. 

Where  once  were  crowds  there  now  is  ample  room ; 

Fields  fertile  once,  are  now  grown  up  with  broom. 

No  crops,  no  fences  now  the  plain  adorn ; 

Grass  and  pine  saplings  take  the  place  of  corn. 

As  men  grow  scarce,  wild  beasts  more   frequent 

prowl, 
The  fox  grows  bolder,  oftener  hoots  the  owl, 
And  hungry  wolves  are  heard  more  savagely  to  howl. 
The  tenant's  lot,  who  here  puts  in  his  seed, 
Is  hopeless,  is  deplorable  indeed ; 
In  vain  does  he  solicit,  day  by  day, 
Gravel  and  grit  and  still  more  heartless  clay. 
The  corn  and  oats  that  man  and  horse  demand, 
He  brings  not  from  these  fields  of  pine  and  sand. 
Not  long  ago,  I  passed  this  region  o'er, 
My  journey  lay  along  Potomac's  shore, 
As  the  broad-bosomed  river  gently  sweeps 
Near  where  the  Father  of  his  Country  sleeps. 
Riding  along  the  rough  highway,  and  thinking, 
I  know  not  what — as  Horace  says — a  clinking 
I  heard  among  the  stones,  on  the  hillside, 
I  checked  my  horse,  and  looking  up,  espied 
Some  negro  laborers  hoeing  with  their  hoes, 
Digging  small  holes,  in  equidistant  rows, 
And  burying  something  in  them.   So  I  cried, 
'What  are  you  doing  there  ?'  A  slave  replied — 
'We're  planting  corn,  sir,  in  these  gravel  beds.' 
'What  plant  ye  with  it?'  Answer,  'Herring-heads.' 

216 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

'Why  plant  ye  herring-heads  with  corn  ?'  said  I. 
'To  make  the  corn  come  up/  was  the  reply. 
Again  I  asked,  'How  many  heads  do  you 
Plant,  to  each  grain  of  corn?'   He  answered,  'Two.' 
'Well,  how  high  grows  it,  thus  manured,  I  beg  ?' 
'About  so  high,'  measuring  upon  his  leg." 
Mother  of  Presidents,  once  haughty  land, 
Behold  thy  portrait  by  a  master's  hand ! 

One  artist  more  depicts  thy  state  forlorn, 
Native  is  he,  and  "to  the  manner  born." 
His  handiwork  may  fascinate  thine  eyes ; 
High-born  is  he,  and  nominally  Wise. 
Stumping  the  State  its  highest  chair  to  gain, 
And,  history  tells  us,  stumping  not  in  vain ; 
This  limner,  true  to  nature,  thus  bewails 
His  mother's  fate :   "Commerce  her  fickle  sails 
Long  since  has  spread  and  sailed  from  you  away ; 
Plowing  no  more  the  bosom  of  your  bay ; 
Your  coal  mines,  richer  than  are  mines  of  gold, 
Remain  undug,  till  your  own  hearths  are  cold. 
Your  iron  foundries  wait  impatient  for 
Trip-hammer,  such  as  Vulcan  wields,  or  Thor. 
Nor  of  your  coarsest  cotton,  do  you  spin 
Enough  to  hide  your  negroes'  naked  skin. 
Of  commerce,  manufactures,  arts,  bereft, 
Nought  but  the  culture  of  your  ground  is  left. 
And  such  a  culture !  He  that  owns  the  fee 
Leases  his  land,  and  skins  the  poor  lessee ; 
The  poor  lessee,  by  his  unskilful  toil, 
Takes  his  revenge,  and  skins,  in  turn,  the  soil. 
Instead  of  farms,  where  each  his  acres  tills, 
Then  cattle  feeding  upon  clovered  hills, 
We  see  the  landlord's  hireling  overseer, 
His  hunger  whetted  to  its  keenest  edge, 


217 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

For  a  tough  steak  chasing  his  stump-tailed  steer, 
Through  swamps  undrained,  and  patches  rank  with 

sedge." 
Such  was  Virginia,  stripped  of  all  disguises, 
As  painted  by  the  wisest  of  her  Wises. 

To  that  low  point  had  slavery  brought  down 

Proud  old  Virginia  ere  she  hanged  John  Brown : 

And  the  same  course,  that  wrought  Virginia's  fall, 

Was,  like  the  cholera,  sweeping  over  all, 

That  sat  in  darkness,  on  the  plains  that  spread 

'Twixt  Rio  Grande's  and  Potomac's  bed, 

Where  Abel  tilled  the  ground  and  Cain  ate  up  the 

bread. 
Brown  saw  Virginia  as  she,  languid  stood, 
In  her  slave  shambles  selling  her  own  blood, 
And  would  have  freed  her  laborer  from  his  chains, 
And  clothed  with  verdure  her  old  naked  plains ; 
But  she  would  still  on  her  destroyer  dote, 
And  hug  the  vampire  closer  to  her  throat, 
Till,  as  her  pulses  faint  and  fainter  throb, 
Finding  that  she  must  either  die  or  rob, 
She  bargains  with  her  sisters,  who  combine, 
Such  as  fair  Flora  and  warm  Caroline, 
To  lay  their  hands  on  all  that  they  can  get 
To  eat  at  leisure  and  not  pay  the  sweat. 

The  boldest  backwoods  hunter  justly  fears 

The  hungry  wolf  he  holds  but  by  the  ears ; 

Seeing  his  hold's  so  weak,  the  brute's  so  strong, 

That,  without  help,  he  can  not  hold  him  long, 

And  fearing  that,  if  he  lets  go,  his  grim 

And  wide-mouthed  game  will  soon  make  game  of 

him, 
Calls  on  his  fellow-huntsmen  for  their  help, 
In  keeping  down  and  mastering  the  whelp; 

218 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

And  if  his  neighbors  come  not  at  his  call, 

He  grows  profane,  and  swears  he'll  whip  them  all ; 

So  our  man-hunters,  grappling  with  a  foe, 

They  scarce  can  hold,  and  dare  not  let  him  go, 

Call,  in  their  terror,  upon  Northern  smiths 

And  woodmen,  for  new  fetters  and  green  withes, 

To  bind  their  shaggy  Samson  in  his  mill, 

To  help  them  hold,  and  keep  him  grinding  still, 

Nor  him  alone,  his  children  must  they  bind, 

Build  them  more  mills  wherein  his  boys  must  grind, 

Purchase  new  acres  at  their  proper  cost, 

Get  new  Virginias  for  them  to  exhaust ; 

Throw  up  new  dikes  'gainst  Freedom's  overflow, 

And  to  her  surges  say,  "No  farther  go!" 

And  now,  forsooth,  because  those  neighbors  stand, 

Look  calmly  on,  and  lend  no  helping  hand, 

To  their  demand  for  aid,  make  no  reply, 

Or  coolly  say,  "We've  our  own  fish  to  fry; 

Good  friends,  we're  weary  of  this  thankless  task, 

We've  given  you  more  than  you've  a  right  to  ask ; 

Till  now,  we've  helped  you  in  your  time  of  need, 

Conceded  till  we  can  no  more  concede, 

Done  for  you  all  that  should  or  will  be  done, 

So  hold  your  wolf  yourself,  or — let  him  run" — 

Our  Nimrods — mighty  hunters — grow  profane, 

Break  three  commandments,  take  God's  name  in  vain, 

Steal  from  their  neighbors,  till  they've  stolen  their 

fill, 
And  then,  proceed  to  bully  and  to  kill. 

And  that  is  War !  But  War,  that  burns  and  blights, 

God  makes  his  minister,  and  clothes  with  rights : 

The  right  a  bondman's  fetters  to  unclasp, 

To  wrest  the  scepter  from  a  rebel's  grasp, 

And  say,  "Lay  down  your  cowskin  and  your  dirk, 

And  take  your  choice,  sir,  starve,  or  go  to  work!" 

219 


THE    PRAISE    OF    LINCOLN 

This  said  the  man,  raised  up  and  sent,  through  grace, 
To  be  "a  prince  and  savior"  of  a  race ; 

A  race  long  doomed  to  servitude  and  scorn ; 
But  through  this  Prince's  word,  to  freedom  born. 
The  man  to  whom  the  bloody  hand  of  War 
Brought  the  Commission,  so  long  waited  for, 
"Deliverance  to  the  captives"  to  proclaim, 
Like  him  whose  name  "is  above  every  name." 
For  him  a  Nation's  eyes  with  tears  are  dim : 
He  slavery  slew,  then  slavery  murdered  him. 
But  in  a  race  redeemed  he  made  his  mark 
On  History's  page.    But  that  race,  O  how  dark — 
When  darkness  covered  all  the  cloud-wrapt  land, 
And  the  Oppressor  laid  his  heaviest  hand, 
Upon  its  eye-balls,  to  "put  out  the  light" 
Of  hope  and  science  from  both  soul  and  sight — 
Must  it  be  now,  when  from  his  "long  despair," 
Brought  out  to  feel  the  sun,  and  breathe  the  upper 
air! 

Father  of  lights !  for  these,  thy  children  long 
Held  in  the  dark  by  robbery  and  wrong, 
Held,  groping  on  in  more  than  Egypt's  night, 
Hear  we  not  now  Thy  word  "Let  there  be  light  ?" 
For  them  didst  Thou  a  great  Deliverer  raise, 
For  him  we  all  now  offer  Thee  our  praise ; 
And,  that  his  name  may  never  be  forgot, 
Would  his  redeemed  ones,  near  the  holy  spot, 
Where  his  great  word  went  forth,  and  where  he  fell, 
Build  up  a  monument,  the  world  to  tell, 
The  gratitude  of  all,  who  now  are  free, 
Should  feel,  and  do  feel  both  to  him  and  Thee. 
Not  such  a  monument  as  Egypt's  kings 
Built  for  their  bones ;  but  such  a  one  as  brings 


220 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Out  from  the  hidings  of  oblivion's  veil, 

The  hallowed  name  of  Harvard  and  of  Yale, 

Within  whose  shadow,  thirsty  youths,  who  think, 

With  Solomon,  that  "light  is  sweet,''  may  drink 

From  the  sweet  fountain  Thou  hast  made  o'erflow 

From  all  Thy  works,  above,  around,  below, 

Fountain  of  Knozvledge,  that,  like  thine  own  grace, 

Debars  no  color,  and  excludes  no  race, 

Where  every  child  may  see  that,  every  hour 

He's  gaining  knowledge,  he  is  gaining  power ; 

The  power  to  labor  for  the  common  weal ; 

To  soothe  some  grief,  some  malady  to  heal; 

And,  by  example  to  make  all  men  see. 

That  it  is  best  for  all,  that  all  men  should  be  free. 

Our  Lincoln  Monument  of  One  shall  speak, 
Like  Moses  faithful,  and  like  Moses  meek ; 
Who  led  Thy  people  through  a  redder  sea 
Than  Israel  passed,  to  light  and  liberty. 
Of  him  who  humbly  trusting  in  the  Lord, 
Moved  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  spake  Thy  word ; 
And,  as  that  word  was  plainly,  firmly  spoken, 
The  bondman's  chains  fell  off,  the  tyrant's  rod  was 
broken. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Frank  B.  Sanborn 

Though  forts  are  stormed  and  cities  won, 
And  banded  Treason  melts  away, 

As  sullen  mists  that  hate  the  sun 
Flee  at  the  bright  assault  of  Day — 
Our  heavy  hearts  will  not  be  gay. 

221 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

For  thee  we  mourn,  in  victory's  hour, 
Whose  courage  no  defeat  could  shake ; 

Who  held'st  the  State's  resistless  power 
In  trust  but  for  thy  people's  sake : 
For  thee  thy  people  mourning  make. 

For  He  that  sways  the  world  with  love 
(Though  War  and  Wrath  His  angels  are) 

Throned  thee  all  earthly  kings  above, 
On  threatened  Freedom's  flaming  car, 
To  frighten  tyrants,  near  and  far. 

His  purpose  high  thy  course  impelled 

O'er  War's  red  height  and  smoldering  plain ; 

When  awe,  when  pity  thee  withheld, 
He  gave  thy  chafing  steeds  the  rein, 
Till  at  thy  feet  lay  Slavery  slain. 

Then  ceased  thy  task — another  hand 
Takes  up  the  burden  thou  lay'st  down ; 

Sorrowing  and  glad,  the  rescued  land 
Twofold  awards  thy  just  renown — 
The  Victor's  and  the  Martyr's  crown. 


HYMN 

Jones  Very 
(Sung  at  the  Eulogy  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  June  ist,  1865) 

O  God  !  who  dost  the  nations  lead, 
Though  oft  in  ways  to  them  unknown. 

We  look  to  Thee  in  this  our  need ; 
A  supplicant  people  seek  Thy  throne. 

222 


THE    PRAISE    OF    LINCOLN 

For  he  whom  Thou  didst  raise  to  guide 
Has  fallen  by  the  assassin's  hand ; 

In  Thee  alone  would  we  confide 

To  guide,  to  guard,  to  save  our  land. 

Through  perils  great,  from  year  to  year, 
Thou  hast  thus  far  our  nation  brought, 

And  given  the  victory  to  cheer, 

And  by  our  Chief  deliverance  wrought. 

With  earnest  prayer  he  sought  Thy  will 

In  all  the  great  events  of  life; 
And  nobly  did  his  work  fulfill, 

Through  four  long  years  of  bloody  strife. 

Oh,  lift  us  up  in  this  sad  hour, 

Let  not  our  Country's  foes  prevail ; 

Sustain  us  by  Thy  mighty  power, 
Let  not  to  us  Thy  promise  fail. 

May  Justice,  Liberty,  and  Peace, 
For  which  his  life  he  freely  gave, 

Bless  all  our  land,  and  never  cease 
To  shed  their  glory  round  his  grave. 


THE  FUNERAL  DIRGE 

L.  M.  Dawn 

All  our  land  is  draped  in  mourning, 
Hearts  are  bowed  and  strong  men  weep; 
For  our  loved,  our  noble  leader, 
Sleeps  his  last,  his  dreamless  sleep — ■ 
Gone  forever  is  our  hero, 
Fallen  by  a  traitor's  hand, 
Though  preserved  his  dearest  treasure, 
Our  redeem' d,  beloved  land. 
Rest  in  peace. 
223 


THE    PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Through  our  night  of  bloody  struggle, 
Ever  dauntless,  firm  and  true, 
Bravely,  gently  forth  he  led  us, 
Till  the  morn  burst  on  our  view — 
Till  he  saw  the  day  of  triumph, 
Saw  the  field  our  heroes  won, 
Then  his  honored  life  was  ended, 
Then  his  glorious  work  was  done. 
Rest  in  peace. 

When  from  mountain,  hill  and  valley, 
To  their  homes  our  brave  boys  come, 
When  with  welcome  notes  we  greet  them, 
Song  and  cheer  and  pealing  drum, 
When  we  miss  our  loved  ones  fallen, 
When  to  weep  we  turn  aside, 
Then  for  him  our  tears  shall  mingle — 
He  has  suffered,  he  has  died. 
Rest  in  peace. 

Honored  leader,  long  and  fondly 
Shall  thy  memory  cherished  be, 
Hearts  shall  bless  thee  for  their  freedom, 
Hearts  unborn  shall  sigh  for  thee. 
He  who  gave  thee  might  and  wisdom 
Gave  thy  spirit  sweet  repose, 
Farewell,  guardian,  friend,  and  father, 
Rest  forever,  rest  in  peace. 
Rest  in  peace. 

HYMN 

Abner  Cheney  Goodell,  Jr. 

O  Thou  who  givest  life 

And  takest  it  again ; 
Who,  as  a  Father  lovingly, 

O'er  all  mankind  dost  reign ; 
224 


THE   PRAISE   OF   LINCOLN 

Our  refuge  and  protector  when 
The  King  of  kings  was  slain, — 

In  this  our  time  of  grief 

And  doubt  we  come  to  Thee ! 

Thou  only  canst  assuage  our  grief ; 
And,  from  Thy  throne,  we  see 

That,  in  the  things  we  chiefly  doubt 
There  is  no  mystery. 

If  we  did  never  turn 

Away  from  Thy  dear  face, 
If  we  did  never  faithless  grow 

And  loosen  Thy  embrace, 
Then  doubt  and  fear  would  never  find 

In  us  a  dwelling  place. 

Then,  through  the  deepest  gloom 

That  ever  shrouds  our  way, 
Our  hearts  would  never  faint, — our  eyes 

Would  never  miss  the  ray 
Which,  like  the  rising  morning-star, 

Heralds  the  perfect  day. 

Trusting  Thy  sovereign  will, 

Confiding  in  Thy  care, — 
As  knowing  that  Thou  kinder  art 

Than  earthly  parents  are, 
And  that  thou  lovest  whom  Thou  call'st 

The  cruel  cross  to  bear, — 

Then  we  should  cease  to  mourn 
For  them — the  good  and  wise — 

Whom  Thou  dost  set  on  earth  to  be 
A  light  unto  our  eyes, 

But  whom,  in  Thy  good  time,  Thou  tak'st 
To  be  in  Paradise. 
225 


THE  FUNERAL  HYMN 

Phineas  Densmore  Gurley 

Rest,  noble  martyr!  rest  in  peace; 

Rest  with  the  true  and  brave, 
Who,  like  thee,  fell  in  Freedom's  cause, 

The  Nation's  life  to  save. 

Thy  name  shall  live  while  time  endures, 
And  men  shall  say  of  thee, 
"He  saved  the  country  from  its  foes, 
And  bade  the  slave  be  free." 

These  deeds  shall  be  thy  monument, 
Better  than  brass  or  stone; 

They  leave  thy  fame  in  glory's  light, 
Unrivaled  and  alone. 

This  consecrated  spot  shall  be 

To  Freedom  ever  dear; 
And  Freedom's  sons  of  every  race 

Shall  weep  and  worship  here. 

O  God !  before  whom  we,  in  tears, 

Our  fallen  chief  deplore, 
Grant  that  the  cause,  for  which  he  died, 

May  live  for  evermore. 

Doxology: 

To  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost, 

The  God  whom  we  adore, 
Be  glory  as  it  was,  is  now, 

And  shall  be  evermore. 

226 


NOTES 

Page  i.  By  many  people  this  is  thought  to  be  Whit- 
man's best  poem.  It  was  written  in  1865,  soon  after 
the  occurrence  of  the  tragedy.  In  this  poem  he  for- 
sakes his  peculiar  style,  which  many  admire  and  many 
more  abominate,  and  falls  either  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously into  rhythm  and  meter.  Mr.  Whitman  and 
Mr.  Lincoln  were  personal  friends,  and  there  is  per- 
haps no  other  poem  of  similar  length  in  the  language, 
containing  so  much  of  pathos  and  genuine  feeling. 

Page  5.  We  give  here  merely  that  part  of  Lowell's 
Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration,  which 
refers  to  the  life  and  character  of  Lincoln.  The  lines 
on  Lincoln  were  not  included  in  the  poem  as  the  poet 
gave  it  at  the  Commemoration  exercises,  but  they  were 
added  immediately  afterward.  The  part  of  the  Ode 
here  given  is  the  part  that  is  most  highly  prized. 

Page  8.  These  stanzas  were  read  by  the  late  Julia 
Ward  Howe,  at  exercises  held  in  Boston  commemorat- 
ing the  hundredth  anniversary  of  Lincoln's  birth. 

Page  20.  The  author  of  these  stanzas  is  supposedly 
English.  The  poem  first  appeared  in  the  pages  of  Mac- 
millan's  Magazine,  London. 

Page  34.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  tributes  to 
Lincoln  that  came  from  the  press  was  from  the  London 
Punch  which,  by  word  and  picture,  had  ridiculed  him 
without  mercy.  The  author,  singularly  enough,  was 
also  author  of  Our  American  Cousin,  the  play  the 
president  was  attending  when  shot.  The  poem  was 
published  May  6,  1865. 

Page  41.  This  poem  by  Leland  was  first  published 
in  the  Continental  Magazine.  It  is  said  to  be  the  first 
poem  written  on  the  Proclamation  of  Emancipation  is- 

227 


NOTES 

sued  by  President  Lincoln,  September  22,  1862,  and 
proclaimed  to  be  in  effect  January  1,  1863. 

Page  51.  Merely  that  part  of  Taylor's  Gettysburg 
Ode  relating  to  Lincoln,  is  given. 

Page  52.  The  Lincoln  Boulder  is  an  immense  boul- 
der taken  from  the  Hudson  River,  and  placed  upon  the 
library  grounds  of  Nyack,  New  York,  by  the  soldiers 
and  citizens  of  that  city,  as  a  memorial  to  Abraham 
Lincoln.  The  face  of  the  boulder  contains  a  bronze 
tablet  with  Lincoln's  Gettysburg  Address.  The  dedica- 
tory exercises  were  held  June  13,  1908. 

Page  53.  This  poem  was  written  when  the  author 
was  only  twelve  years  old.   He  lives  at  Richmond,  Va. 

Page  57.  For  many  years  the  grave  of  President 
Lincoln's  mother,  Nancy  Hanks  Lincoln,  was  neg- 
lected. About  the  close  of  the  war  a  young  man  named 
Corbin,  from  Ohio,  who  was  visiting  in  the  vicinity  of 
Lincoln  City,  Indiana,  made  a  trip  to  the  grave  and 
wrote  a  poem  on  its  neglected  condition.  It  was  pub- 
lished at  the  time  in  a  Rockport  (Indiana)  newspaper 
over  the  nom  de  plume  "Babbie."  Not  until  a  few 
years  ago,  long  after  the  author's  death,  was  his  name 
disclosed.  In  recent  years  a  plot  of  sixteen  acres  sur- 
rounding the  grave  was  bought  by  the  state,  and  made 
into  a  park,  a  monument  has  been  built,  and  the  grounds 
are  kept  in  attractive  condition  at  the  state's  expense. 

Page  59.  Frances  E.  Willard,  the  distinguished 
temperance  evangelist,  while  on  a  tour  of  the  Pacific 
states,  was  for  a  short  time  a  guest  in  the  home  of 
Mr.  Alfred  H.  Nelson,  of  Ogden,  Utah.  Miss  Willard's 
host  incidentally  repeated  in  her  presence  part  of  a 
poem  about  Lincoln,  which  he  regarded  as  the  finest 

228 


NOTES 

ever  written  on  that  great  theme.  Miss  Willard  ex- 
pressed her  admiration  of  it,  and  Mr.  Nelson  volun- 
tarily furnished  her  a  complete  copy  written  from 
memory.  Mr.  Nelson  was  in  Virginia  City,  Nevada, 
when  Abraham  Lincoln's  funeral  services  were  cele- 
brated there.  He  heard  the  author,  who  was  then  editor 
of  the  Territorial  Enterprise,  read  the  poem,  and  ob- 
served the  profound  impression  it  produced.  The  poem 
was  again  printed  in  the  Illinois  State  Journal,  Septem- 
ber 26,  1883. 

Pages  72  and  157.  These  poems  by  Lyman  Whitney 
Allen  are  excerpts  from  the  revised  edition  of  the  prize 
poem,  Abraham  Lincoln,  published  in  the  New  York 
Herald,  December  15,  1895. 

Page  yy.  President  Lincoln  was  a  firm  believer  in 
the  significance  of  dreams.  To  dream  of  a  ship  pre- 
saged the  coming  of  some  important  event.  Such 
dreams  came  to  him  before  the  battles  of  Antietam, 
Murfreesboro,  Vicksburg  and  Gettysburg.  To  him 
they  indicated  victory.  It  seems  that  on  the  night  of 
April  13,  1865,  ne  dreamed  of  seeing  "A  flying  bark 
with  all  her  canvas  bent."  He  was  in  doubt  as  to  what 
this  foreshadowed,  as  the  war  was  practically  over. 

Page  83.  It  is  said  that  Mr.  Lincoln  had  an  earnest 
desire  to  visit  the  Holy  Land,  and  that  just  before  he 
was  shot  he  had  discussed  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Lin- 
coln. He  told  her  that  when  the  cares  of  state  were 
over  they  would  go  to  Palestine,  adding :  "There  is  no 
city  I  desire  so  much  to  see  as  Jerusalem." 

Page  90.  This  poem  was  read  before  the  Tom  Reed 
Republican  Club,  of  Ogden,  Utah,  on  the  anniversary 
of  Lincoln's  birthday,  February  12,  1888.   It  was  pub- 

229 


NOTES 

lished  in  The  Poets  of  Maine,  a  volume  compiled  by 
George  Bancroft  Griffith,  and  now  out  of  print. 

Page  170.  Savannah  surrendered  on  the  21st  of  De- 
cember, 1864,  to  General  Sherman,  who,  on  the  22nd, 
sent  a  despatch  to  President  Lincoln,  presenting  to  him 
"as  a  Christmas  gift,  the  city  of  Savannah  with  one 
hundred  and  fifty  heavy  guns  and  plenty  of  ammuni- 
tion, and  also  about  twenty-five  thousand  bales  of 
cotton."  On  December  26th  the  president  replied  to 
General  Sherman:  "Many,  many  thanks  for  your 
Christmas  gift,  the  capture  of  Savannah  ...  it 
is  indeed  a  great  success." 

Page  174.  From  the  Ode  delivered  before  the 
Brooklyn  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences  at  the  Acad- 
emy of  Music,  Brooklyn,  New  York,  February,  1909. 

Page  183.  This  memorial  poem  was  written  at 
Springfield,  Illinois,  on  the  twentieth  anniversary  of 
the  death  of  President  Lincoln,  April  15,  1885. 

Page  196.  This  poem  was  first  published  in  Collier's 
Weekly,  February,  1909.  It  was  later  included  in  Mr. 
Oppenheim's  Monday  Morning  and  Other  Poems. 

Page  21 1.  This  poem  was  read  by  the  venerable 
New  England  poet,  John  Pierpont,  on  the  occasion  of 
the  celebration  of  the  Colored  People's  Educational 
Monument  Association  in  memory  of  Abraham  Lin- 
coln, on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1865,  in  the  presidential 
grounds,  Washington,  D.  C. 

Page  223.  This  Funeral  Dirge  was  set  to  music  by 
George  F.  Root,  and  sung  at  the  funeral  services  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  at  Washington,  D.  C. 

A.  D.  W. 


230 


INDEXES 

OF  AUTHORS,  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

PAGE 

Adams,  Mary  M 48 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 121 

Allen,  Lyman  Whitney 72,  157 

Baldwin,  Fred  Clare 40 

Banfield,  Edith  Colby 68 

Barrett,  John  E 67 

Benton,  Joel 182 

Boker,  George  Henry 109 

Boyle,  Virginia  Frazer 11 

Brownell,  Henry  Howard 125,  148 

Bryant,  William  Cullen 2 

Bugbee,  Emily  J 15 

Burdick,  Mary  Livingston 37 

butterworth,  hezekiah 83 

Cary,  Alice 69 

Cary,  Phcebe       71 

Cheney,  John  Vance 47,  160 

Clark,  James  G 161 

Condon,  Amasa  Stetson 00 

Cooke,  Rose  Terry 158 

Corbin,  James 57 

Couch,  Louis  Bradford 52 

Cranch,  Christopher  Pearce 61 

Croll,  P.  C 209 

Dawn,  L.  M 223 

Dole,  Nathan  Haskell 123 

Elliott,  Lydia  Landon        156 

Fiske,  Horace  Spencer 29 

Garrison,  Wendell  Phillips 77 

Gibbons,  James  Sloane 99 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson 24,  42 

*33 


INDEX   OF    AUTHORS 

PAGE 

Glyndon,  Howard 173 

Goodell,  Abner  Cheney,  Jr 224 

Goodman,  J.  T 59 

Gordon,  H.   L 124 

Gurley,  Phineas  Dens  more 226 

Hager,  Levi  Lewis 120 

Hall,  Eugene  J 46 

Halpine,  Charles  Graham 163,  164 

Hanaford,  Phcebe  A 210 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 89 

House,  Benjamin  Davenport 54 

Howe,  Julia  Ward 8,  151,  154,  172 

Johnston,  James  Nicoll 78 

Kemp,  Harry  H 159 

Kerr,  Orpheus  C 79 

Kiser,  Samuel  E 10 

Larcom,  Lucy       88 

Leavitt,  Mary  A 121 

Leland,  Charles  Godfrey 41 

Linthicum,  Richard 155 

Love,   Robertus 9,  21,  29 

Lowell,  James  Russell 5 

McKay,  James  T 13 

Mackay,  Robert        56 

Mackaye,  Percy        174 

MacKellar,  Thomas 158 

Malone,  Walter 156 

Markham,  Edwin 13,  38 

Mason,  Caroline  A 19 

Melville,  Herman • 73 

Mitchell,  S.  Weir 70 

Moore,  Frank 169 

Morris,  Robert      . 53 

Nesbit,  Wilbur  Dick 66 

Newell,  Robert  Henry 79 

Newton,  William  Wilberforce 3 

234 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 

PAGE 

Oppenheim,  James 196 

O'Reilly,  Miles 163,  164 

Parker,  Benjamin  S 62,  76 

Perry,  Nora 170 

Piatt,  John  James 74,  101 

Pierpont,  John 211 

Pratt,  Florence  Evelyn 145 

Proctor,  Edna  Dean 24 

Randolph,  Lewis  V.  F 168 

Realf,  Richard 167 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb 7,  156 

Sanborn,  Frank  B 221 

Sangster,  Margaret  E 205 

Searing,  Laura  C.  Redden 173 

Sill,  Edward  Rowland 194 

Smith,  Samuel  Francis 183 

Sours,  B.  F.  M 96 

Sprowl,  Monroe 98 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 26,  186 

Sterne,   Stuart 28 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry 102,  162 

Taylor,  Bayard 51 

Taylor,  Benjamin  F 204 

Taylor,  Tom 34 

Thompson,  Maurice 17 

Thomson,  Edward  William 32,  138,  187 

Townsend,  George  Alfred        203 

Trowbridge,  John  Townsend        146 

Venable,  William  Henry 195,  206 

Very,  Jones 222 

Whitman,  Walt 1,  no,  171 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf 30 

Wightman,  Richard 44 

Williams,  A.  Dallas 43 

Woodbury,  Ida  Vose 122 

235 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Page 


Abraham  Lincoln 

Baldwin     . 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Benton 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Boyle 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Brownell   . 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Burdick 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Carey 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Cheney 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Condon 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Cooke 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Croll 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Goodman    . 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Hall  . 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Johnston     . 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Malone 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Moore 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Pratt 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Sanborn 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Sangster    . 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Smith 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Sprowl 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Stedman    . 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Stoddard    . 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Townsend 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Venable 

Abraham  Lincoln— 1863        .... 

Realf 

Abraham  Lincoln's  Christmas  Gift 

Perry 

Accomplices 

Aldrich 

Ancient  Abe,  The 

H alpine 

Anniversary  of  the  Birth  of  Abraham  Lincoln 

Hager 

Appreciation  of  Lincoln,  An 

Love  . 

At  Lincoln's  Grave 

Thompson 

At  Lincoln's  Tomb 

Love  . 

Birthday  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  The     . 

Leavitt 

Cabin  Where  Lincoln  Was  Born,  The 

Morris 

Cenotaph  of  Lincoln,  The     .... 

McKay 

236 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 

Page 

Coming  of  Lincoln,  The        ....        Markham  .  38 

Commemoration  Ode Lowell       .  5 

Crown  His  Blood-Stained  Pillow         .        .        Howe         .  172 

Dead  President,  The Sill     .        .  194 

Dear  President,  The Piatt           .  74 

Death  of  Lincoln,  The Bryant       .  2 

Douglas' Complaint       147 

Emancipation  Group,  The    ....        Whittier    .  30 

England's  Sorrow           31 

Fame  of  Lincoln,  The Williams  .  43 

Father  Abraham  Lincoln      ....         Thomson    .  138 

Forthe  Services  in  Memory  of  Abraham  Lincoln  Holmes      .  89 

Funeral  Dirge,  The Dawn         .  223 

Funeral  Hymn Hanaford  .  210 

Funeral  Hymn,  The Gurley        .  226 

Gettysburg  Ode Taylor        .  51 

Grave  of  Lincoln,  The Proctor       .  24 

Hand  of  Lincoln,  The Stedman     .  26 

Honest  Abe Brownell  .  148 

Horatian  Ode,  An Stoddard   .  102 

House  Where  Lincoln  Died,  The         .        .        Mackay      .  56 

Hushed  Be  the  Camps  To-Day    .        .        .         Whitman   .  171 

Hymn Goodell      .  224 

Hymn Very  .        .  222 

Hymn  to  Abraham  Lincoln          .        .        .        Newton      ,  3 

InMemoriam:    Abraham  Lincoln      .        .        Bugbee       .  15 

Let  There  Be  Light Pierpont    .  211 

Liberator,  The Fiske          .  29 

Life-Mask  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  The  .        .        Sterne        .  28 

Lincoln 20 

Lincoln 39 

Lincoln Barrett      .  67 

Lincoln Clarke        .  161 

Lincoln Elliott       .  156 

237 


INDEX    OF   TITLES 


Lincoln Howe 

Lincoln Riser 

Lincoln Linthicutn 

Lincoln MacKellar 

Lincoln Mitchell 

Lincoln Nesbit 

Lincoln Newell 

Lincoln Parker 

Lincoln Parker 

Lincoln Riley 

Lincoln Sours 

Lincoln Trowbridge 

Lincoln Wightman 

Lincoln:    A  Retrospect         ....  Remp 

Lincoln  and  His  Psalm         ....  Taylor 

Lincoln  at  Gettysburg Adams 

Lincoln  Boulder,  The Couch 

Lincoln  Campaign  Song,  A 

Lincoln  Centenary  Ode         ....  Mackaye 

Lincoln-Child,  The Oppenheim 

Lincoln— 1865 Randolph 

Lincoln  in  Bronze Love   . 

Lincoln's  Birthday Dole  . 

Lincoln's  Birthday Woodbury 

Lincoln's  Last  Dream Butterworth 

Lincoln's  Passing  Bell  ....  Larcotn 

Lincoln — The  Boy Riley 

Lincoln,  The  Man  of  the  People  .        .  Markham 

Martyr,  The Cranch 

Martyr,  The Melville 

Mother  of  Lincoln,  The         ....  House 

Neglected  Grave  of  Lincoln's  Mother,  The  Corbin 

Night  Ride  of  Ancient  Abe,  The  .        .  Halpine 

O  Captain !  My  Captain !      .  Whitman 

On  a  Picture  of  Lincoln         ....  Cheney 

On  Reading  President  Lincoln's  Letter      .  Gordon 

On  the  Life-Mask  of  Abraham  Lincoln       .  Gilder 

Our  Good  President Cary  . 

Our  Heroic  Themes Boker 

238 


INDEX    OF   TITLES 

Pardon Howe 

Parricide Howe 

People's  President,  The        ....  Venable 

President  Lincoln's  Grave    ....  Mason 

President's  Proclamation,  The     .        .        .  Searing 

Proclamation,  The Leland 

Punch's  Apology Taylor 

Sonnet  in  1862 Piatt 

Stroke  of  Justice,  The Allen 

To  a  Portrait  of  Abraham  Lincoln       .        .  Ban  field 

To  the  Spirit  of  Abraham  Lincoln       .        .  Gilder 

Vision  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  The  .        .  Garrison 

Voice  of  Destiny,  The Allen 

Washington  and  Lincoln       

We  Are  Coming,  Father  Abraham      .        .  Gibbons 

We  Talked  of  Lincoln Thomson 

When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloomed  Whitman 

When  Lincoln  Died Thomson 

"Wide-Awake  Club"  Song 


Page 
154 
151 
206 

*9 

173 

41 

34 

101 
157 

68 
42 

77 
72 

34 
99 
V- 
110 
187 
U7 


239 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

A  blend  of  mirth  and  sadness,  smiles  and  tears     ....  156 

A  nation  lay  at  rest.   The  mighty  storm 59 

A  nation's  voice,  a  nation's  praise 48 

A  peaceful  life; — just  toil  and  rest 7 

A  wooded  hill — a  low-sunk  grave 57 

Abe  Lincoln?  Wull,  I  reckon!  Not  a  mile  f'om  where  we  be  21 

Above  Judea's  purple-mantled  plain 56 

Abraham  Lincoln,  the  Dear  President 74 

After  the  eyes  that  looked,  the  lips  that  spake 51 

Again  thy  birthday  dawns,  O  man  beloved 122 

Ah,  countless  wonders  brought  from  every  zone    ....  28 

Akin  to  all  that's  noble,  abreast  with  all  that's  grand  .     .     .  209 

All  our  land  is  draped  in  mourning 223 

Already  Appomattox  day 187 

Amidst  thy  sacred  effigies 30 

And  he  was  once  a  babe,  little  and  like  any  other      ...  44 

And  so  they  buried  Lincoln?    Strange  and  vain     ....  13 

April  flowers  were  in  the  hollows ;  in  the  air  were  April  bells  83 

As  back  we  look  across  the  ages 123 

Bear  him  to  his  Western  home 78 

Chained  by  stern  duty  to  the  rock  of  state 70 

Child  of  the  boundless  prairie,  son  of  the  virgin  soil    .     .     .  205 

Clearing  in  the  forest 106 

Crown  his  blood-stained  pillow 172 

Crown  we  our  heroes  with  a  holier  wreath 109 

Dead  is  the  roll  of  the  drums 125 

Dreaming,  he  woke,  our  Martyr  President yj 

Fame's  trumpet  blows  a  silver  note 67 

"Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do"    ....  186 

From  the  beginning  the  Eternal  Cause 211 

From  the  tints  and  the  tones  of  other  years        121 

Good  Friday  was  the  day 73 

24O 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 

PAGE 

He  punished  me — in  fight  you  see        147 

Here  do  I  look  upon  historic  form 29 

Heroic  soul,  in  homely  garb  half  hid        146 

Heroic  statesman,  hail 183 

His  people  called,  and  forth  he  came 160 

''Honest  Abe!"  What  strange  vexation 148 

Hundreds  there  have  been,  loftier  than  their  kind             .     .  158 

Hushed  be  the  camps  to-day 171 

Hushed  to-day  are  the  sounds  of  gladness 210 

I  read  once  more  this  care-worn,  patient  face 47 

In  cabined  solitude,  beside  dim  fires  at  midnight  hour     .     .  98 

In  him  distilled  and  potent  the  choice  essence  of  a  race    .     .  39 

It  touches  to  the  quick  the  spirit  of  one 167 

Lay  his  dear  ashes  where  ye  will 19 

Lean  child  of  the  rugged  hills 62 

"Let  us  up  and  do  or  die" 164 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways 4 

Lift  up  the  bowed,  desponding  head 173 

Lincoln,  the  woodsman,  in  the  clearing  stood 145 

Lincoln !    When  men  would  name  a  man 20 

Look  on  this  cast,  and  know  the  hand 26 

May  one  who  fought  in  honor  for  the  South    .     .     .     .     ,  17 

Men  saw  no  portents  on  that  winter  night 38 

Move  on,  ye  pilgrims,  to  the  Springfield  tomb 204 

My  private  shrine.    The  Gettysburg  Address 138 

New  heroes  rise  above  the  toiling  throng 10 

No  adulation  vain  the  poet  brings 195 

No  ceremonial       174 

No  glittering  chaplet  brought  from  other  lands      ....  69 

No,  not  in  vain  he  died,  not  all  in  vain 61 

No  trumpet  blared  the  word  that  he  was  born 11 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  party  cry 163 

Not  as  when  some  great  captain  falls 102 

Now  must  the  storied  Potomac 24 

Now  that  the  winds  of  Peace  have  blown  away    ....  159 

Now  who  has  done  the  greatest  deed      .     * 41 

241 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 

PAGE 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done    ....  i 

O  God!  who  dost  the  nations  lead 222 

O  honored  name,  revered  and  undecaying 46 

O  Mighty  Boulder,  wrought  by  God's  own  hand     ....  52 

O  simple  as  the  rhymes  that  tell 156 

O  Thou  of  soul  and  sense  and  breath 89 

O  Thou  who  givest  life        224 

O'er  the  warrior  gauntlet  grim 151 

Oh.  hear  you  not  the  wild  huzzas        .     .  147 

Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare 2 

One  forged  the  links  that  welded  fast 34 

Only  a  cabin,  old  and  poor 53 

Our  sun  hath  gone  down  at  the  noon-day 71 

Out  on  the  lie  of  "lowly  born" 54 

Over  snowy  fields  of  cotton 96 

Pains  the  sharp  sentence  the  heart  in  whose  wrath  it  was 

uttered 154 

Perish  the  power  that,  bowed  to  dust 124 

Rest,  noble  martyr,  rest  in  peace 226 

Reverberant  music  of  rejoicing  bells 206 

Safe  in  Fame's  gallery  through  all  the  years 37 

Saw  you  in  his  boyhood  days 3 

Shade  of  our  greatest,  O  look  down  to-day 42 

So  deep  our  grief,  it  may  be  silence  is 158 

Some  opulent  force  of  genius,  soul  and  race 182 

Somewhar  down  thar  round  Hodgeville,  Kaintucky    ...  9 

Somewhere  to-day  in  dolor  and  in  want        90 

Stand  like  an  anvil,  when  'tis  beaten 169 

Stern  be  the  Pilot  in  the  dreadful  hour 101 

The  deeds  of  him  who  bore  that  name 156 

The  hand  of  an  assassin,  glowing  red 31 

The  hour  was  come,  and  in  that  hour  he  stood      ....  ^2 

The  hour  was  come,  the  Nation's  crucial  hour        ....  157 

The  peaceful  valley  reaching  wide 203 

The  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves      ....  121 

242 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 

PAGE 

The  voice  is  hushed,  the  heart  is  still 76 

There's  a  burden  of  grief  on  the  breezes  of  spring      ...  15 

This  bronze  doth  keep  the  very  form  and  mold     ....  24 

This  day,  upon  the  scroll  of  fame        120 

This  man  whose  homely  face  you  look  upon 162 

Though  forts  are  stormed  and  cities  won 221 

Through  the  dim  pageant  of  the  years 8 

Thy  rugged  features  more  heroic  are 68 

Tolling,  tolling,  tolling 88 

'Twas  in  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-four 170 

'Twas  needed — the  name  of  a  Martyr  sublime        ....  79 

Uprisen  from  his  fasced  chair  of  state 29 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 

more        99 

We  hear  a  cry  increasing  still 145 

We  mark  the  lowly  place  where  he  was  born 66 

We  talked  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  night 32 

Were  there  no  crowns  on  earth 194 

What  hast  thou  hidden,  mournful  Night 168 

What  strong,  sure  hand  shall  guide  the  laboring  ship      .     .  155 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloomed no 

When  the  Norn  Mother  saw  the  Whirlwind  Hour     ...  13 

Wherever  men  are  civilized  they  know 43 

With  Humor's  wand  in  hands  to  hardship  used     ....  40 

With  life  unsullied  from  his  youth 161 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier 34 


243 


The  Life  of  Abraham  Lincoln 

By  WILLIAM  E.  BARTON,  author  of  The 
Soul  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  The  Paternity  of 
Abraham  Lincoln,  etc. 

Two  volumes,  profusely  illustrated.  Index.  Large 
8vo,  clothed,  boxed. 

THE  MOST  distinctive  contribution  to  Lincoln  liter- 
ature since  William  Herndon  laid  down  his  pen  a 
half  century  ago. — Horace  Green  in  N.  Y.  Times 
Book  Review. 

Proves  that  Dr.  Barton  is  one  of  the  few  really 
great  biographers  of  all  time. — International  Book 
Review. 

Will  stand  as  a  most  notable  contribution  to  the 
knowledge  of  one  of  the  greatest  figures  history  has 
produced. — Forrest  P.  Hull  in  Boston  Transcript. 

Dr.  Barton's  original  study  of  so  many  phases  of 
Lincoln's  history  makes  his  work  an  outstanding  au- 
thority on  the  subject.  He  makes  Lincoln  more 
normally  human  than  previous  writers,  and  the  history 
of  his  presidency  is  written  with  more  intimate  detail 
than  preceding  biographers  have  supplied. — Professor 
Luther  E.  Robinson,  in  The  Saturday  Review. 

No  one  in  years  has  given  us  the  ambitious  work  to 
compare  with  Dr.  Barton's  delightful  and  fascinating 
biography.  It  is  the  most  satisfying  realistic  record 
of  the  man  Lincoln  yet  written. — Claude  G.  Bowers, 
in  New  York  World. 

The  most  authoritative  life  so  far  written.  In  addi- 
tion, it  is  exceedingly  interesting  to  read — as  fascin- 
ating as  a  romantic  novel. — Carrol  Binder  in  Chicago 

News. 

Destined  to  remain  for  many  years  as  the  standard 
life  of  the  martyred  President. — W.  J.  Ghent  in  The 
Outlook. 


Lincoln 

An  account  of  His  Personal  Life,  Especially  of  its 
Springs  of  Action  as  Revealed  and  Deepened  by  the 
Ordeal  of  War. 

By  NATHANIEL  WRIGHT  STEPHENSON 
Crown  8vo,  uncut  front  and  foot,  gilt  top.  Con- 
tains three  new  and  previously  unpublished  chap- 
ters. Illustrated  with  a  Lincoln  portrait  gallery, 
showing  how  his  appearance  changed  as  his 
character  developed. 

THE  LINCOLN  story  will  surely  live  for  many 
hundreds  of  years  and  as  long  as  it  lives  this  book 
should  live  with  it.  It  has  stirred  me  more  deeply 
than  any  American  book  I  have  read  for  years. 
It  is  a  beautiful  book,  beautifully  conceived,  felt  and 
written. — Sherwood  Anderson  in  The  Golden  Book. 

A  strong,  scholarly,  brilliant  book,  really  superb. 
One  is  refreshed  by  every  page,  every  paragraph. 
Whoever  doubts  the  power  of  style,  in  and  of  itself, 
should  read  Stephenson's  Lincoln — and  he  will  doubt 
no  longer.  Scholar  and  philosopher,  Mr.  Stephenson 
is  also  artist. — Albert  J.  Bcveridge  in  International 
Book  Review. 

For  the  first  time  we  have  an  account  of  Lincoln 
which  points  out  the  evolution  of  his  character.  The 
most  satisfactory  both  from  a  literary  and  a  his- 
torical point  of  view. — Allen  Johnson,  of  Yale. 

The  best  life  of  Lincoln.  As  a  work  of  art,  an 
example  of  how  a  biography  should  be  written,  it 
deserves  unqualified  praise. — New  York  Tribune. 


V 


